


The Circle, Closed

by Ldigo



Series: The Circle [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Sibling Incest, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unethical Experimentation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-04-22 17:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22196662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ldigo/pseuds/Ldigo
Summary: After witnessing his brother‘s death and receiving his farewell gift Jeremiah begins to contemplate his own life as he knows it. No sooner acknowledges he the need to look at it from entirely different angle, he finds himself blindly focused on a sole purpose and becomes quickly obsessed with it. Well then, he always had a penchant to square circles.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska
Series: The Circle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677820
Comments: 42
Kudos: 79





	1. Bruce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justanothermaniac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothermaniac/gifts).

> Hello there, guys!  
I have to warn you English isn’t my first language, so please don’t hesitate to point out all the mistakes. I hope you’ll like this clumsy attempt at adding to the fandom though.  
I dedicate it to the author here, whose works leave me with baited breath. She is amazing and basically inspired me to do this.

‘No… nonononono’

His thought process is seemingly reduced to just one syllable, repeating itself over and over again as if on a shortcut until everything becomes a fucking blur. His brother, cruel, heartless, sadistic psychopath who got off on blood and violence and murdered or mutilated far more people than he cared to count, who forced upon him a life of constant fear, of holing himself up in the middle of an underground maze with unhealthy amount of security measures (which still didn’t pay off) and an overly devoted bodyguard as an only human contact, is dead. He should feel elated, or relieved at least, certainly not… not this. What he feels instead of proper emotions is indescribable.

Jerome is dead.

_D e a d._ Let go of the hand that held him and fell from the roof. _According to Jim fucking Gordon,_ reminds him his inner voice with surprising contempt.

The feeling of ugliness, wrongness is the most pronounced amongst the devil turmoil that took over his usually mild demeanor. Something somewhere took an awfully wrong direction. _The plan was different._

Plan? What on earth is this about?

Xander stops dead in his scrambled musings when his unfocused gaze skims over Bruce’s disturbed one. What he stumbles upon is conflicted mess, much like his own eyes would have looked like had he not learned to hide behind inner forts and thick-rimmed glasses such a long time ago, almost a literal lifetime. However all he chooses to see in those deep oceans of his (not as endless as Jerome’s abysses though) right now is… astonishment? No, more like incomprehension. Or is it closer to hostility? Repulsion? What’s wrong with him?

The answer presents itself at this exact moment. Xander senses it with his whole essence, however unrealistic that sounds. Unfamiliar, long forgotten wetness on his cheeks, clear traces of tears. His eyebrows are painfully pinched, his face evidently displays the grief of overwhelming loss for the whole world to see and pray upon. Without uttering a single word he turns around and briskly flees further and further away from the scene of death — _of murder_ — of his brother, loosing himself in whirlpools of unexplainable frightening emotions that came out of nowhere and refused to leave. He’ll deal with his slip later.

**JVJVJV**

Xander manages to pull his eyes open with no small effort, experiencing all the joyous effects of clearly the worst hangover in his life. A pleasant shower and a couple of painkillers later he feels slightly more alive, but obviously not nearly enough.

In the centre of the table in his study a present box signed _Wayne Enterprise_ is proudly deposited, probably put there by Ecco while he’d been busy drinking himself into oblivion. He can’t help hysterical laughter escaping his mouth unbidden and nigh tosses it in the furthest corner of the room, but catches himself on time. No, no, it can’t be a mockery. Maybe Bruce is trying to apologize by this gesture?

_Brucie the rich boy seriously believes everything including friendship might be bought, doesn’t he?_

This time around his inner voice sounds so authentic and exquisite that it can’t possibly be mistaken for anything other than it is. These inflections are solely Jerome’s. Wilde laughs hysterically once again, mindless of tears running down his cheeks. Is he finally loosing his mind?

He’d never been prone to emotional reactions and outbursts, those were Jerome’s forte. Stop. No, he was! He was always whining and fretting over just about anything, that’s why he exaggerated a couple of things in order to make Lila do something about Jerome and his psychopathic tendencies. _Wait, no, it was different!_

His temples ache twice as much as several moments ago while a few distorted, indecipherable images quickly flash across his mind. With a sudden jolt of pain he drops the box, up to that point still absentmindedly clutched in his hands. The movement makes it fall open, and a cloud of lilac mist envelops him along with his dead brother’s voice, unexpectedly gentle. Xander allows himself to close his eyes and adopts a tender smile.

**JVJVJV**

Taking his brother’s belongings from Arkham is not a challenge in the slightest. He understands why only after putting his shaking hands on the longed-for diary. There isn’t anything particularly noteworthy about it at first sight, just the usual ramblings of insane man, obsessed with his own bloodlust and theatricality. However, Jerome is certainly better than that. Turns out he’d actually tried to take care of his traitorous twin, despite all the bitterness and his tendency to hold deep grudges boiling inside just below the surface for ages. His stay in the infamous asylum certainly managed to confirm his suspicions (or hopes?) regarding Jeremiah: about halfway through the encrypted in their own code notes he finds agitated mentions of Oswald Cobblepot and mysterious Dr. Strange, whose name briefly awakens something indescribable in Jeremiah.

With a longing sigh he gulps down the remnants of whiskey and throws the now emptied bottle in one of the useless models. His thoughts are engulfed by the person who’d been faithful till the very end only to be let down time and time again, and now he is gone, all alone and betrayed crueler then ever, and it can’t be undone. Jeremiah’s heart is breaking more with each passing second following this train of thought, threatening to bury him under all these suffocating emotions. When a fantom hand gently runs through his unruly locks, he gives in and violently sobs. He knows he mustn’t indulge in such outbursts in front of anybody, so he takes his time and lets himself pour all this out now, shows his vulnerability only to Jerome. Jerome, who of course isn’t real, just a spectre conjured by vivid and desperate imagination. And isn’t it just unbearably tragic?

Later that day Jeremiah consumes all the truths in his brother’s neat handwriting like a lifeline, which should have warned and frightened him, but it sure as hell doesn’t. Jerome is a fucking genius (no surprise there, really, they’re one and the same after all), and everyone who thinks otherwise must be stupid or blind or both. While staying in an asylum under the influence of drugs he forms rather plausible theory based solely on handful of observations and his own deductions.

_It’s not like there’s something particularly wrong or even unsettling about experiments on humans, and it certainly isn’t surprising either, Jerome supposes, however this one concerns his little brother, and that is simply unacceptable.  
Upon arrival in the most dreadful place ever without any semblance of trial, or psychological evaluation, or anything at all for that matter, he firstly becomes wary, secondly finds in himself something suspiciously similar to the fear which he didn’t experience since the very first morning without his brother next to him on their dump cot. Observing famous Cobblepot’s metamorphoses firsthand is frankly terrifying, and he is truly afraid of becoming next in the queue, but that moment never comes. The accidentally overheard scraps of dialogue between the good doctor and his devoted nurse bring him different sort of unease. “Second time won’t show us any interesting results” offers Strange.  
The surreal picture begins to paint itself.  
Jerome honestly doesn’t think their mother sold Jeremiah to the mad psychiatrist, least he’d have to admit the bitch outsmarted them both. No, it was more likely his new foster family noticed something off about the child. Without Jerome Jeremiah could misstep and reveal himself easier._

Jeremiah, on the other hand, isn’t able to agree with the last hypothesis, however he can’t for the life of him determine whether it’s about pride or remnants of suppressed memories. He tiredly throws himself in the middle of pillow nest and rubs soreness from his newly sensitive eyes after finishing the remaining notes and leans for the last unempty bottle, silently vowing that he won’t encourage his developing alcoholism anymore. He’s brilliant at deceiving himself after all. His brother’s chuckle from the corner of his awareness sounds like a mockery.

It seems like Jerome’s suspicions were confirmed for the final time during their brief encounter in the bunker, and the older twin still hadn’t abandoned his fruitless attempts in reaching the younger one since then. Whiskey and another broken bottle scattered across the opposite wall certainly doesn’t help with taming guilt and self-depreciation at his own weakness and misery. In the end Jeremiah steadily loses himself in drunken confessions to his brother. After sobering up couple of hours later (time lost all of its meaning these days) he remembers with no small amount of despair that the only source of dear voice is his own head now and quietly sobs, hunched.

**JVJVJV**

Bruce Wayne seemingly can’t stop bothering him about those goddamned generators. Well, once upon a time this project was important to Jeremiah as well, however nowadays everything that matters is Jerome. And it’s him who convinces the only remaining Valeska of the perfect opportunity to follow into his steps. Family tradition of sorts, if you say. Jeremiah gets it without any further explanations, and the model gets a tiny additional detail.

Close observations upon Bruce’s arrival fail to reveal what it was exactly about this idealistic child that managed to capture Jeremiah’s attention not so long ago, but he steadfastly plays his role to the letter anyway.

**JVJVJV**

Xander comes to pick him up from the entrance in the bunker, looking like he hasn’t seen the sun or even fresh air since their last (under rather unpleasant circumstances, to put it lightly) meeting. At first Bruce can’t bear the sight of him, so familiar and yet not at all, and visibly falters, but he is able to reign himself in fairly fast. In this very moment, when the shadows dance around his slightly thinner frame and lack of facial scars, he looks strikingly like his deceased brother, which should have long since stopped being all that surprising, considering they were twins. Nevertheless, similar appearances aren’t the same as similar personalities, Bruce reminds himself. He knows that more intimately than most.

Xander’s hair is disarrayed, his glasses can’t fully hide that his eyes are puffy and red, and there must be unsteadily put concealer under them. It contradicts so much his usual flawless, maybe even abnormally so, appearance that Bruce fidgets, not knowing what to do with himself, how to deal with situation at hand, if it’s appropriate to say or do something at all.

“Sorry about the mess” Xander astutely breaks the uncomfortable silence when they pass the living room, at the same time trying to inconspicuously hide with his body everything that lays inside. His sharp attention allows Bruce to glimpse dozens of empty and broken bottles silently reminding him of his own spiraling down shady paths after the death of Ra’s Al Ghul. He feels more itchy with each passing stride, not knowing what to say, how to offer his condolences without sounding insincere. Xander Wilde lost his brother, his last remaining relative, however the entirety of Gotham couldn’t be more grateful for this riddance.

At his workplace Xander becomes more lively, part of his previous passion and enthusiasm coming back during the monologue about his project and all the good it can make to the city and her people. For a moment Bruce can’t help but think that his interlocutor couldn’t care less about those, but he vehemently pushes the thought away. It’s Xander, awkward but brilliant reclusive geek, his newfound friend, after all, who just goes through a difficult period, that’s all.

His mental state is nevertheless obvious, despite all the attempts to hide it. (Why? Does he really believe Bruce is going to judge him for his grief?) Wilde might stumble around one word or another, lose his train of thought, confuse his own calculations for the briefest of moments. Somebody else in his place probably wouldn’t notice a thing or think much of it, however Bruce considers himself attentive and knowledgeable enough. So when his project clearly isn’t working to put Xander’s mind off of things, there’s little Bruce can do except leave.

“Please call me when you put yourself back together, Xander. I’ll be waiting” he interrupts his friend with a soft smile, squeezes his arm in a show of support and turns away.

**JVJVJV**

After walking Bruce to the exit and stiffly enveloping him in a hug for good measure Jeremiah tiredly sweeps metaphorical sweat from his forehead, giving way to contrasting line of starkingly white skin amidst appropriately pale one. Touching someone who wasn’t his brother felt worse than the most unpleasant chore, but on the bright side he surely won over affection of the heir to the multi billion corporation, eagerly (albeit unknowingly) waiting to provide for his much needed in the near future bombs. And his flawless performance gave him necessary time for his research.

His ability to complete multiple tasks at a time that used to make him proud of himself is temporary compromised. Jeremiah can’t find it in himself to concentrate on anything other than his link to his brother. Said brother laughs delightedly. _I’m so proud of ya, little manipulative bastard._ The certain fondness in his voice is unmistakable, and it warms his chest. Jeremiah isn’t stupid, he knows descend into madness when he sees one, but he isn’t able to give a fuck about that. Not when the only person that matters is almost right there.

In simple tomb on Gotham Cemetery rests carefully crafted waxwork that wouldn’t be out of place at Madame Tussauds’, while the real body poethically lays in a suspended chrystal coffin deep inside the maze, where the temperature is ideally suitable for maintenance. Jeremiah talks to him for hours, rocking the chain, when he isn’t busy searching for Cobblepot or Strange. In the end useless cultists who couldn’t fathom a probability that someone else might send them their orders in Jerome’s stead if their lives depended on it have proved that they aren’t entirely hopeless, and so Jeremiah is about to see former mayor for the first time.

**JVJVJV**

“Ozzy” drawls Jeremiah together with his twin from the darkest corner of barely lit office. Pinguin visibly shudders and drops his wineglass. Beads of rich red wine look exactly like blood under such light, and sharp shards only make the picture more appealing. He laughs with amusement and certain delight, unable to help himself.

“H-how d-did you survive?”

There’s so much terror in Cobblepot’s voice that his laugh grows louder until it abruptly stops. Jeremiah hasn’t allowed himself much thought on planning on killing the traitor, ‘cause it’s not like the airship was the main plan of Jerome’s and so wasn’t crucial, however the cowardly fuck surely could live without that knowledge. Besides, who knows what Jerome might have to say about this when he wakes up.

“If you would be so kind as to tell me all you know about Doctor Strange” he goes on like didn’t hear any interruption at all.

“Are you fussing over your Brother again!?” Exclaimed Pinguin, seemingly finding his footing once again. Jeremiah is wounded by the knowledge of someone else sharing their secret, but his face is far firmly set into nonchalance to show any visible reaction, “I’m telling you I don’t know a thing about any other patients before me. In fact I firmly believed I’d been the first as they kept telling me as much. Moreover, I hadn’t lost any memories entirely, they were just hazy and wrong and beyond reach, while your issue is something different altogether! I don’t know what else might be done about that! A strong emotional distress was enough for me, I can’t imagine what has to occur for your brother to get his shit together if faking your death in front of him hasn’t helped. And I still don’t know anything according to whereabouts of Strange and I am immensely grateful for that, just so you know! What is it about that fucking useless cunt that has you so obsessed over him!? You’re just being delusional like that Tetch guy and…”

In an instant Jeremiah is right in front of stupid fucker with a death wish, who stops ranting distressingly right away. Kind of hard to do that with an almost crushed windpipe, he supposes. With big round eyes on red face Oswald struggles, but manages to deliver just a few tiny scrubs on the leather gloves holding him with unrelenting force. He tries to reach something under the table, but Jeremiah quickly pins his hand to the wooden surface with a knife. His victim doesn’t produce any sound — that would require some air in their lungs.

When Cobblepot is close to blacking away about an odd minute later, the hold on his throat somewhat lessens, allowing him several small but precious gulps. Jeremiah, bending down to his face and ghosting his ear with hot breath, recites aloud Jerome’s words with perfect synchrony in a hiss, laced with ire. And then lets go of him entirely, turning to leave.

“Oh yes, one more thing. I’ll greatly appreciate it if you find me our good doctor though. I’ll send someone over in in a couple of days. Debts have to be paid, after all” he adds as an afterthought, looking over his shoulder from the doorstep. Than he sharply smiles at his unwilling assistant. 

**JVJVJV**

Jeremiah subconsciously awaits someone to exhume his brother’s tomb at that very same night and puts a couple of unnoticeable cameras nearby, but nobody comes. It does little to dissolve his worries though. That’s why he is perfectly prepared for shaken Bruce’s call on the day four.

It’s not like the boy is anywhere near skillful liar, and so after some persuasion Jeremiah gets a halftruth: the cultists are supposedly unusually active these days, which sounds of course ridiculous to the one in control of them, but indicates the real reason obviously enough.

His thanks is accordingly terrified of the unsaid opportunity when he hangs up and allows himself a small frown. The fact that he expected such sort of behavior from Oswald and didn’t reveal himself doesn’t make this whole ordeal any less unfortunate. Well then, once a traitor — always a traitor, as the saying goes. He quickly dials a long since memorized number and awaits. They pick the phone immediately after first call, just as usual.

“Ecco, I believe Oswald Cobblepot is dying to make himself well acquainted with my hospitality” he orders and ends the call, unconcerned about the answer. He knows it without a single syllable of course. His own ability to condition her blind devotion to him even with most of his personality reduced to nothing, however, seemingly won’t cease to amaze and fill him with pride any time soon. His brother’s comment just fuels it.

That settled, all that is left for him now is wait for some time then. Pinguin predictably couldn’t restrain himself from running to his dear police friend with news about his activity — or rather, Jerome’s. He is hiding in some godforsaken hole surrounded by countless mercenaries, his paranoia tripled, but Jeremiah holds utmost confidence in his assistant’s abilities. It’s time for the next stage of plan.

In his beloved brother’s company he restores his cool composure and questionable sanity and switches back on his cellphone.  
“Bruce, please, I find myself unable to stay here alone right now” convincingly pleads not Jeremiah Valeska, but Xander Wilde. The reply from the other side of the line leaves him satisfied like a cat that cornered an oblivious canary.


	2. Oswald

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *cheerfully types next chapter without a care in the world instead of preparing for informatics exam or sleeping remaining 4 hours*  
Also me coming morning at uni: Jesus fuck what on earth all these strange symbols even mean?

“Ozzy dearest, how come you are so careless?” The oddly familiar reproachful voice is the first thing Oswald hears when unconsciousness promptly releases its clutches. The place where he comes to is pitch black, and at first he’s too disorientated to process anything, especially his captor’s ability to determine his returned awareness, but then the dots finally connect with beeping sounds of machine of some sorts and alien sensation in most pronounced vein on his forearm. Must be catheter or something, he sluggishly muses. A desperate attempt to move his limbs turns out to be expectedly fruitless. In fact he can barely stir a finger with all these excessively knitted ropes.

“You fought so much that almost hurt yourself to the point of death” Jerome goes on (and who else might it be?!) “All before we managed to have a small talk, y’know. Such a shame really. I’m sure we both would’ve regretted the loss of such a _captivating_ opportunity.”

The source of voice remains unclear. It feels like it comes from every direction at once, and frankly it frightens Oswald a little. He’s never been one to deceive himself after all.

“Have you prepared any plausible excuses, Ozzy?” His captor’s unusual lack of emotions certainly doesn’t help any with his fear either.

“I-I’m not… What have I done? Jerome, please explain…”

“So you are saying it wasn’t you who informed Gordon about something that clearly wasn’t his business?”

“No, it wasn’t! I swear it wasn’t! I have no idea how he found out, Jerome!” Cold goosebumps march down his spine. How the fuck did the clown become aware of it!? Damned commissioner must’ve once again put his trust in the wrong person who gladly shared it with cultists (or even had been one of them all along).

“Funny, isn’t it? Y’know what, I’d probably believe you were it not for the fact that our dear friend Jimbo discussed it with his favorite sidekick and then they merrily proceeded to try on the role of black archeologists. Care to guess what they found, mm?”

“It wasn’t me! I swear someone must have betrayed me, I’d never…” He is violently squirming in his bindings now without any momentum available. Oswald hasn’t been so afraid of dying in his life, even on that goddamned pierce or inside of crumpling car.

“Oswald, Oswald, calm down. Do you really think I’ll believe you? Frankly I weren’t experiencing any doubts even before our horror movie-inspired interrogation, and now when you are taking a polygraph test even less so. Not to mention your astonishingly pathetic parody of deception.”

Oswald abruptly quiets. Understanding downs on him like a coffin cover. How on earth does he make it out alive and preferably with all his limbs intact? His predicament seems hopeless at the moment. Nevertheless, surely Jerome hasn’t gone through with all this trouble solely because of unneeded confession and his penchant for theatrics, has he?

“What do you need?” he gasps hoarsely, hoping beyond hope that he doesn’t sound quite as desperate as he thinks he does. Cold manic laugh proves all the worth of such delusional attempts at self-reassurance. Well, he’s tried at least.

“Oh, don’t you worry not that pretty little head of yours with all these heavy thoughts penetrating to your feathering, traitorous birdy. You still have a chance to survive us.”

“U-us?”

“Where are my manners these days?” exclaims his interlocutor in mock distress. “The one and only Jeremiah Valeska, at your disservice. Brother dearest sends his best wishes and apologizes he couldn’t make it to greet you here in person.”

And right then Oswald finally grasps that nobody is going to leave him be with such grievous information at his disposal. However there isn’t any fright or fight left in him at this point. Moreover, he sympathizes with this guy whose psyche seemingly really had been trifled with after all. It brings forth understanding and irrational acceptance of his own fate.

“Well then, Mr. Cobblepot, why did you turn to Gordon in the end? Don’t tell me it happened because you weren’t able to locate our mutual friend, I beg of you” His voice sounds like anything but. Oswald isn’t suicidal enough to point that out though. He realizes perfectly well what it’s like to lose oneself, how desire for revenge consumes its owner, burns everything else inside to the ground until all that is left is its gnawing abyss. However, he can’t even begin to imagine what a person who’d been someone else for years, someone broken and rearranged entirely as a child must be feeling. It’s terrifying enough as it is, he doesn’t need to be haunted by even more nightmares about that dreadful godforsaken place.

“Why do you need it now, Mr. Valeska?” He tries nonetheless. “Jerome’s plan, whatever it contained, worked out. You are back to your old self, aren’t you? Why…”

“I need my fucking memories back!” Jeremiah interrupts him with a menacing hiss, clearly pissed off. “He’s probably the only one able to give them to me. That’s why you’d better answer the damned question _now_, Ozzie, if you please.”

“I’d been… uneasy with the task at hand and had difficulties with fulfilling it” Oswald offers, dreading the reaction. Something breaks on the other side of the presumable intercom.

“Did you now? I see…” Jeremiah sounds understandably dissapointed, and Penguin is quick to offer him some comfort in the form of all those little tidbits of information he has stumbled upon. It’s not that much, certainly, but it’ll have to do for now and will hopefully help him to see the other day.

“Well, brother, let’s have a look at it, shall we? Leave the cops to their noble windmill chase” he scarcely hears with his eyes closing on their own volition under the influence of sedative of some sort, most certainly. Something nibs at his fading consciousness (something very important, he knows), but he isn’t able to grasp it before the medicine overtakes him.

**JVJVJV**

Next time Oswald reemerges from drug-induced sleep his surroundings aren’t concealed by overwhelming darkness, which leaves him in momentary frenzy. Some spot on his inner thigh throbs with something close to pain but not quite. It also feels like the source of unpleasant shockwaves spreading across his whole body from toes to even hair. Must be adrenaline injection or something similar administered to wake him up. He tries to banish picturesque thoughts about what purpose his full-body sensitivity might serve now, according to his captors.

“Shit, how long have I spent in here?” he murmurs when the pain fails to subside after what feels like a good couple of minutes. On the contrary, it does in fact increase, and all his dignity is waisted on letting no sound escape his clenched teeth.

“Not as long as you’d think” Jeremiah chuckles seemingly almost above his ear, for fuck’s sake! He’d jump if it wasn’t for bindings.

However, there isn’t anyone in his immediate vicinity when his watery eyes adjust themselves. Oswald absorbs the setting of the small room — _the cell_ — in stride, not really registering anything, until his unseeing gaze halts over refined silhouette in perfectly tailored green suit (his chest swells for a moment when his dizzy mind conjures an all-too-familiar image of similar shape). Jeremiah’s appearance, however, is a far cry from Ed’s, which brings some sort of relief. His skin is sickly pale, almost as if there isn’t any pigmentation left at all, even his hair which once upon a time must have been the same fiery red color as his brother’s is now dimmed and has an odd marsh-green shade in fluorescent light. The only striking details of this nearly blank canvas that has become of the youngest Valeska twin are his carmine lips that have seemingly drunk in all the available brightness and his eerily alien, _otherworldly_ eyes. Yes, Jeremiah is truly beautiful, inhumanly so, there’s no doubt of that, but said beauty is lifeless, void. It can’t be comprehended by any existing standards and draws impression of something entirely unreachable. This new image inspires both sanctity and instinctual abyssal fright in perfect dichotomy. It reminds Oswald of something buried deep in labyrinths of his long-forgotten childhood memories, something about that small little boy who used to tremble with horror in the face of_ The Monster From The Closet_ until he decided to become a monster himself.

The monster in front of him canonically smells his fear and delights in it. The corners of his flawless too-bright lips lift in well-practiced caricature of a smile which conflicts sharply with the rest of his face and especially his eyes, still void of any semblance of humane emotion. The unexplainable panic that’s been steadily growing inside of him finally shreds the floodgates open and Oswald embarrassingly intakes a deep shuddered breath with a strangled sound that is certainly loud enough for the other to hear, but he couldn’t care less right at this very moment. Jeremiah’s eyes finally reflects something. It’s the same sort of burning insanity that terrified him in Jerome, even more visible in case of his twin brother. Must be running in the family then.

Valeska laughs, cold and emotionless, more like clear-cut proclaims each “ha” as though a sharp glass. Pinguin is shaking all over. He’s never considered himself a coward, however he’d rather be in Strange’s Arkham or dead or under unforgiving gaze of his best friend on that pierce now, anywhere not in presence of this… this creature, this _thing_ is good enough for him really.

And as abruptly as it has begun (despite the fact that he can’t for the life of him pinpoint the exact moment), it stops. Jeremiah turns his piercing eyes away and the vice of unnatural panic unfolds itself momentarily.

“Funny, isn’t it. I’ve recently found out that straight-on eye contact with me sends any person spiraling into the debris of horrors. It affects even you, Oswald” he offers conversationally with a note of mocking disdain. “Just an amusing cosmetic effect, I presume. It’s almost as if I’m a better version of Crane’s fickle toxin, clothed in human suit. And possessing vast intelligence, of course. I wonder though, how would _He_ react.”

Oswald pays little mind to his words. No use listening to disjointed ramblings of a narcissistic madman and trying to pry something conventionally logical and worthwhile from them. He is exhausted, rather ironically considering his keeping conditions, and wants to go home. Wherever that home might be this time around. From the depths of his mind come unbidden memories of his short-lived happiness in his father’s manor, destroyed by his own hands.

“…Nigma”

“What!?” That name, forever ingrained on his insides, forcibly assists him in resurfacing himself from sacred gallery of painful images.

“You didn’t listen to me, did you!?” Jeremiah hisses, vigorously clenching his spidery fingers around helpless Oswald’s neck. It strongly reminds him of something, but he is too busy attempting to make an inhale right now to concentrate on it properly.

“To put it simply, I wanted you to tell me about Edward Nygma” he repeats with absolute tranquility after releasing his grip (Oswald’s vision started to blacken dangerously at that point). Of course Valeska’s face tells absolutely nothing about the fact that he’s almost suffocated his captive to death no longer than a moment ago in a fit of blind rage. He’d most certainly make an excellent poker player. These sudden mood swings of his, however, hit dangerously close to home for Oswald’s liking.

“W-what do you w-want with h-him?” He manages to push it out of his mouth on a second try in between coughing, and his own hoarse voice sounds utterly foreign to him. This unstable and freakishly strong, despite appearances, guy (just like his brother, really) is going to kill him, there’s no doubt of that left, nevertheless, Oswald can’t bring himself to betray his former friend who totally annihilated him in the name of a girl he’d been acquainted with for a week. He can’t still love him after all that happened… can he?

Jeremiah studies his eyes for a short while and then relents:

“We are trying to collaborate. Mutually beneficial cooperation, I assure you. It pains me to admit it, however our good doctor hadn’t been able to assist… What? Ah” he brushes away Oswald’s gaze, pleading for elaborate answer. “Why yes, it wouldn’t be hard for anyone with half a brain and a little time on hand to locate that vain bastard based on those scraps of information you somehow succeeded in obtaining. Unfortunately, I have to burden you with news of untimely demise of our lovely old friend. He strangely hadn’t been cooperative, can you imagine?”

The pin is not particularly witty, but it makes Oswald laugh with relieved joy all the same. Moreover, Edvard’s appearance in all this mess suddenly makes much more sense.

“What did you do to him?” he quietly askes. Jeremiah only smiles enigmatically in return, offering no further explanation. It’s not like he needed one anyway. Simple knowing that sick shithole won’t experiment with human psyche or genes anymore is enough.

It’s a treacherous thing, but Penguin can’t help feeling grateful, deeply and overwhelmingly. It swallows him whole, and he tentatively smiles, seeing as his own mind unclenches itself from the nightmares which no longer have any power over him.

“Edward appreciated it either. Are you going to divulge your insight on him now?” His interlocutor’s emotionless voice equaled a bucket of cold water thrown over him. “It’s important, Oswald, otherwise I wouldn’t ask.”

And so ignoring all the warning signs Oswald indulges. He tells his attentive audience everything from the very beginning. How they first met at the police station and he wasn’t impressed with twitchy expert at all, how that same expert brought him unconscious in his loft and tended to his injury, their strained at first, but rapidly developing friendship, mutual acceptance and touching gestures, phone calls and piano plays, Arkham and it’s aftermath, their short blossom during Oswald’s mayor campaign and finally that ridiculous downward spiral which came with innocent sickly sweet librarian girl. He fully perceives concept of true masochism while telling the tale of Edvard’s flawless artifice and masterful obliteration of everything they built together; his own clumsy attempts at retribution, lacking any finesse whatsoever, leaving a bile in his throat. In hindsight it was more like getting scrambles of himself and his pride together really.  
“Well, I see it all clearly now” Jeremiah’s voice is once again dissecting the spell. “I suppose it won’t hurt for you to know that at the moment he is trying to restore his personality after that barbaric cryogenic freeze of yours, just like you or me. Get his brain to function properly. And I assist him in this endeavor.”

“It’s an unfortunate side effect of defrost gone wrong. Victor…”

“Is that so?” Jeremiah interrupts him, amused. “Don’t you worry, I won’t pass the message. Wouldn’t want to become part of your little quarrel, now would I?”

He adjusts his gloves, standing up once again, and abruptly adds:

“What a pathetic sight you are, Oswald, truly. Nothing more than a lovesick puppy. We used to cut those open, Jerome and I. Leaving them as macabre displays in every town visited by circus.”

His voice doesn’t contain even inflection of indulgence or disgust, sounding steady and matter-of-factly until he comes to the reminiscing part and allows himself to show some extent of his nostalgia. This somehow irritates more than any other version of the same truth. Oswald regrets his next biting words before they spill from his mouth but is unable to stop in time.

“Am I now? I suppose in that case Jerome must b…”

Jeremiah strikes shortly, without taking a moment to gain any momentum or at least simply changing his clearly uncomfortable position. It’s not like he overly needed it though: Oswald still hears unmistakable crunch and feels something flooding his nose. Blood spills down his lips and chin and he instinctively licks it. Jeremiah’s agile fingers, smoothly enveloped in white leather, look so fragile despite (or maybe_ because of_) the blood splattered all over them, that the sheer force contained in them seems surreal, impossible.

“Don’t you dare mention the name of my brother, traitorous skum!” His low voice and ethereal eyes aren’t devoid of any infection anymore. Concentration of soulless hatred in them would be enough to sustain a hundred of Oswalds in their fickle petty grudges. 

His survival instincts are probably away searching for someone without such pronounced suicidal tendencies right now, because next thing he registers is his jaw unclenching of its own volition and unfaltering heavy words weighing like Zsasz’s bullet shots on his tongue.

“He’s gone, isn’t he? His death right in front of your eyes was real, that’s how you came back to yourself, that’s why you sought after me. You wish to remember everything now. But he is dead nonetheless, and you can’t change that with all your wits. You are running in circles, engaging yourself in more and more desperate ways in order to gather spilled water with your bare hands. As simple as that.”

Valeska burns him with his hateful glare, but Oswald is unable to turn away, to do anything under those eyes. There isn’t any comprehensible thought in his head left, he can’t even bid farewell to his life properly. After a whole eternity under that abyssal stare, which in fact probably amounted to no more than a couple of odd minutes or even seconds Jeremiah finally staggers back.

“I’ll bring everything back. My memories and especially _Him_” he whispers with such devotion, more like totally unhinged obsession, that Oswald isn’t entirely able to shake off the foreign conviction. He’s unable to feel any fracture of surprise at the depth of their codependency either as their particular relationship, as outwardly nonexistent as it was, has always stricken him as remarkably unhealthy one. In those several minutes that pass between Jeremiah’s departure and the beginning of slow flood of sedatives in his system he contemplates the fate that would be bestowed upon llong-suffering Gotham if (_when_, some tiny part of him traitorously supplies) Jeremiah Valeska succeeds.


	3. Edward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ended up missing my exam due to an accident, which included a gas oven and half of my hair burnt off. At this rate I’m probably pretty close to getting myself expelled, but at least I would endure that with a new haircut.

He wins again, albeit with far more effort than at the beginning of all of this. Edward Nygma, who is sitting in front of him right now, is obviously not the same character from Bruce’s and especially Oswald’s stories. Jeremiah isn’t good at offering sympathy or comfort, doesn’t generally feel the need to, however he finds himself reluctantly opening up to him a bit. Far more than to Leslie Thompkins, the newfound Narrows queen, that’s for sure. He supposes he sees something similar between himself and Edward and reaches to it, then. Not all that surprising, considering Edward’s relentless attempts to rebuild his memory, cognitive functions and the life itself from the seemingly mismatched pieces of insanely complicated jigsaw puzzle. Valeska even discusses with his brother the possibility of telling Edward about Oswald’s incarceration and offering the captive to him as a means of payment or good turn, but in the end decides against it. For now, at least.

“What you are dealing with is just a psychological barrier. It’s all in your head.” He repeats once again for whatever reason. Ah well, if Nygma insistently doesn’t listen to the voice of logic, Jeremiah washes his hands of him. Yes, Thompkins blatantly uses and manipulates him, which in fact should be obvious for anyone with half of Edward’s thinking capacity and paranoia, but there’s no use in saving a genius, who strengthens his own prison walls with rather misplaced persistence. At the end of the day, the only thing that matters is Riddler’s ability to help in required moment. Anything that isn’t his brother matters not, not in the long run.

Human mind registers and stores everything that happens, which means that there are always means to reverse changes, instilled under care of that goddamn skilled psychiatrist. Same old deep hypnosis, for example. Long conversations with Thompkins and lately Edward made Jeremiah into neuroscience expert of sorts — its theoretical aspects, at least. He can’t entrust his memories and half-conscious motionless body to that woman, though, and this leaves him with sole option: to wait until Nygma gains his footing once again. At least he isn’t that unpredictable in relation to fickle morals, that tend to suddenly resurface in former medical doctor from time to time, not to mention Jeremiah’s hostility and lack of any semblance of trust towards her. All that matters aside, caution still wins over impatience, after all, as he’s unable to guarantee that her active participation wouldn’t thwart, postpone of even crush (however unlikely that last option is) all his careful plans.

In time Edward truthfully turns out to be rather pleasant conversation partner, a welcome distraction that sublimates temporary absence of his brother with surprising amount of success. Not much, but that would be a miracle in and of itself. Nygma’s only significant flow, as far as Jeremiah is concerned, is his unhealthy obsession with definitely inappropriate people. The irony isn’t lost on Valeska, certainly, however he is more than just reluctant to call his interest in Jerome obsessive. Sure, he loves his brother and considers himself ready to do absolutely anything for him without any limits, but isn’t that the same for Jerome? Moreover, he believes this all-encompassing feeling is closer to narcissism than something outward. Jerome is basically a part of him, forcedly separated in their childhood by people, none of whom is still alive, regrettably. Jeremiah longs for bathing in their blood together with his other half, like twins should. He should have stopped himself from killing Strange on the spot and preserved him in order to give Jerome a present he deserves, but he was so angry and almost — dare he admit it — desperate. He lost control and didn’t even prolong the pleasure for himself.

Nevertheless, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. Jeremiah seeks comfort in the fact that every passing day, every conversation with Edward, every step in his meticulous plan brings their sweetest reunion closer. The only real obstacle is probability of Edvard turning him away when the time to reveal his greatest desire comes. He might put up the same argument as esteemed Doctor Strange. The second-time resurrection, you see, is a risk he is “not willing to take”, what with all the variables involved. Isn’t that just a _laughable_ thought?

**JVJVJV**

Jeremiah helps his temporary allies to rob the bank by orchestrating a distraction on the other end of Gotham under the guise of Jerome. This stage of his plans is close to completion.

He calmly waits while Edvard is passively kissing Thompkins, who is reciprocating in kind in the heat of a moment. No use warning the acquaintance, blinded by his own unhealthy feelings. Edward would definitely react distrustfully, and it won’t do to irate his future sitter just before the session. Everyone digs their own grave, he supposes. Soon all of this will come to an end, he believes, and such thoughts almost make his heart break the ribcage and jump out in the open in anticipation.

The medical armchair with attached bindings is ready, as well as the full list of needed medications. Jeremiah is still slightly unsure about his changed body’s reaction to most of substances, especially hallucinogenic ones, however a few blood tests, taken by Crane, make him willing to risk it. The boy is wholly devoted to his brother, and this unexpected development somehow arouses light affection instead of jealousy in Jeremiah. He himself has got Ecco, after all.

_You can never be mad at Jonathan for long_, supplies Jerome.

Ecco, who in turn assists Edward with latest preparations, is visibly nervous for the first time in all their years together, as far as Jeremiah is able to recall. Nevertheless, no fear, least of all hers, is able to turn him away from the chosen course of action right now, when he almost tastes fruits of his labor on tip of his tongue.

The first injection doesn’t have any effect, however after the second one the devastating decorations of an abandoned building around them begin to blur, until all that is left in blinding darkness is a voice, sounding clear and assured. The voice walks him through his mind’s labyrinth, where false memories have a crimson backlight and bitter taste. There’s too much of them, too much of conflicted images, they flash by like supernovas, too bright and rapid to catch more than a glimpse. Jeremiah is drowning. He tries to fight it, to climb up like that frog in the churn full of milk, but can’t tell that he is successful even a little bit. He is too weak for that.

His Ariadne’s voice becomes strained, distant. Then it is too quiet to hear or maybe gone at all, and there’s nothing left to cling to in the eye of the storm.

**JVJVJV**

Jeremiah flinches, feeling aftershocks of a lightning running through his whole body. Wait, his body? Yes, he finally feels it, so sluggish and foreign. He attempts to consciously move at least a finger, but finds himself unable to do so, as though his very skin strictly confines him. A needle pierces his forearm, and a short pang of pain comes with a noticeable delay, as if covering billions of light-years inside of his crumbled synapses.

He begins to feel himself a little less dead. Due to administered adrenaline, most probably. His head is aching more than he could ever hope to describe verbally, his thoughts are slow and clumsy. As soon as the headache becomes entirely unbearable, he gives up trying to obtain full consciousness and blacks out.

**JVJVJV**

As he comes to for the second time, he’s able to control his own body much better. His head is heavy even while lying on a pillow, his brain is pushing his scull from the inside like yeast dough, but at least he can remember who and where he is and what happened. He opens his parched mouth with remarkable difficulty and wordlessly thanks someone who notices and correctly interprets his silent plea and gives him cool, refreshing water through a thin tube.

He manages to pry his eyes open after a couple of failed attempts. The light is too bright, everything around is a blur, his sight aimlessly flows in each direction, unable to focus. His pupils must be dangerously blown wide.

Someone pierces his vein with a new catheter (the spot feels like there’s a lovely bruise formed). A few odd minutes later he is well enough to decipher two pale, worried faces: Ecco and surprisingly Edward. Jeremiah hasn’t anticipated him staying here for that long. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, obviously, however the amount of it must be rather significant.

“Jonathan,” forces he hoarsely through his lips and hopes beyond hope that the word comes out tangible enough. He closes his eyes, and the darkness descends upon his fired brain. He welcomes it.

**JVJVJV**

He is back at home, in his own bed, when he regains consciousness once again. The headache, somewhat dulled, is expected. He’s resigned himself to it before this whole ordeal. Being unable to think quickly and rationally, however, proves to be something he absolutely can’t get used to. Heavy boulders that are his thoughts now grate on his nerves splendidly. Of course he saw it coming, but he wasn’t ready for such helplessness, as it turns out.

“Where is Jonathan?” Jeremiah barely whispers. Ecco, devoted as ever, notices. She immediately abandons her post beside his bedside and exits the room. No longer than a minute later she returns with a flask in hand, filled up with thick misty gas-like substance to the brim. Jeremiah sighs in relief. They’ve created this particular gas just in case, and it seems like his only option now.

“Give it to me!” He barks with all the strength he can muster. His outstretched hand is noticeably shaking, and he despises it. In fact, Jeremiah would shot any witness to his weakness, except Ecco and his brother. Probably except Johnathan too. “And don’t be afraid, I’ll be out for a couple of days.”

She nods in submission, and then he uncorks the vial and carefully breathes in its contents. Almost two full days later, when he finally wakes up, all the memories in his head form a solid structure, he is finally close to being whole for the first time since separation from Jerome, which took place more than a decade ago. He makes note to appropriately thank Jonathan for his part in this significant victory.

**JVJVJV**

When he appears at Narrows, Edward and Thompkins are in the middle of a very heated argument. Although it’s rather entertaining to watch, Jeremiah has to intervene in order to gain Edvard’s help. Otherwise he’ll possibly have to seek a new accomplice, judging by their unstable emotions. He doesn’t have time for that.

They both look at him with irritation (Edward, however, although appears relieved). Jeremiah is anything but patient, so a few smartly formed questions and comments sever their petty argument at the root for now, in fact basically prolonging the inevitable. Jeremiah will be long done with them both when it bangs, though, so it doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t repeat “it’s not paranoia when she uses you” or anything along those lines for the hundredth time either. He never engages himself in hopelessly counterproductive actions.

“I believe you’re aware why I’m here now,” he begins, when Thompkins finally goes away to mind her own business. He avoids direct eye contact, willing to spare Edvard discomfort of his gaze.

“Look, Jeremiah,” Edward begins, sounding uncharacteristically unsure. Just the tone of his voice alone makes something inside of his interlocutor dangerously tremble. “I thoroughly studied Strange’s notes and everything else I was able to find on the subject. It isn’t about your brother, believe me, I’ve got nothing against him, we haven’t even as much as encountered each other, but… I don’t think second resurrection is going to be successful in any case, not to mention the first time around in this particular one. I can guarantee that mistakes during that process would significantly complicate the procedure which is already complex to begin with. And I can’t even begin to grasp how the state of his mind might evolve, judging by the fact it had already been questionable after…”

“You. Are. _Wrong_.” Jeremiah punctuates every word with underlining force, trying to hold himself from inflicting irreparable damage upon this fucking bastard. How dares he? Jerome created intricate plans that fooled them all, of course his mind was sound! How can anyone doubt that? Or is he _mocking_ us?

_Calm down, Miah_, whispers Jerome soothingly, _he doesn’t know that. Nobody knows, just you and me. Me and you, us, there’s nobody else but us, as it was always meant to be._

His brother’s voice and feather-light caress on his hair helps, as usual. He hears Edward’s panicked “Jeremiah!” and averts his raged eyes in time. He can always test his ability to drive people insane on someone more disposable or at a later date, after all.

“Let’s imagine I am willing to risk it,” Edward goes on, trying to gather himself. “What do you think happens next? His body is damaged after the fall. It’s impossible to cure injuries on the corpse, Jeremiah, and if he wakes up as he is, unhealed, he’ll pass away again almost immediately, all the time enduring unbearable pain! There’s nothing I can do!”

Everything goes quiet, Nygma looks like he is afraid to breathe after his outburst, and not without a reason. Jeremiah is trying to regulate his breathing through clenched teeth. He wants to crash and burn everything and especially everyone around him, beginning with the deliverer of unwanted news. Instead he hits the bar counter with all his might, making thick wood crack.

Here. Here’s the thing he refused to think about for all this time, and now it crashes him, mauls him beyond repair. He needs to come up with something, _anything_, and to do that fast, before the despair swallows him whole, leaving behind just a void of senseless destructive force. He sees his fate clearly now. And the only way to prevent it is to cure fucking death.

Jeremiah doesn’t even realize what he is hoping for when he offers Oswald as a payment to the former forensic expert. That’s why refusal doesn’t affect him, and he bids his flat goodbye and leaves. He won’t kill the one who’s already helped him and is simply unable to do that again.

**JVJVJV**

The Riddler stays in the middle of the empty, but somehow still stuffy bar, unsure of what to do. He hasn’t come to a decision when he finds himself hastily leaving the building. All of it is so unlike him, truth be told. He is more used to meticulously planning in advance. 

It’s heavily raining outside, and he can’t see anything past the lithe figure, which is motionlessly staring into the stormy sky. And than the decision comes to him.

He approaches Jeremiah, who doesn’t acknowledge his presence, probably doesn’t notice him at all, and lightly touches his jacket sleeve to gain attention. Startled, Valeska rapidly turns around. All his cosmetics is flowing down in fat lines, revealing paper-white skin underneath, and Edward flinches backwards in surprise. Jeremiah catches his arm, helping him to stay on feet.

“I’m sorry, Jeremiah,” he offers. “I wish I could help you, but that is not in my power. I’m not sure about something else either, but it is always worth a shot, isn’t it? When Barbara Keen and that fucker Gahlavan’s sister, Tabitha, came here the other day, I overheard them discussing someone named Ra’s al Ghul. Rumor says it he’s got access to some sort of salubrious water and even resurrected Barbara with its help after Tabitha electrified her. Come by their place, if you’d like. Who knows, maybe there’s some truth in this somewhere and you’ll be able to achieve what you desire most.

If anyone told him this an odd couple of years before, Jeremiah wouldn’t think twice before downright laughing at something that ridiculous, but Gotham has taught him better since then. With a nod and a grateful smile he turns away and purposefully heads towards awaiting him car with Ecco inside, dutifully occupying the driver seat. He’s got a lead.


	4. Ra’s al Ghul

It’s almost too easy. He doesn’t even need to show his face to temperamental women to acquire all the necessary information concerning this mystical Ra’s al Ghul character. They are passionately discussing said person, ignoring everything around them, right when he appears at _Sirens_. Jeremiah goes away as unnoticed as he’s come in, and the secret of his identity dutifully follows. The circle of those let in on it remains unchanged: there are Ecco, Jonathan, incapacitated Oswald, Edward and his beloved Doctor Thompkins. And she is the only one who raises concerns regarding secret keeping. She’ll probably have to be dealt with, if Jeremiah is to prolong the game for a while longer than anticipated (and if Edward doesn’t beat him to it).

Due to all that he’s overheard, Jeremiah manages to find Ra’s al Ghul without much trouble. Moreover, he does have something valuable to offer: his bombs are about ready (which is probably the reason of Bruce’s insistent calling, if you come to think about it), and as far as Jeremiah can guess, they would fit nicely in ancient warrior’s plans. The price is nothing compared to his brother’s life, even if there weren’t an extra bunch of generators nobody knows about. He is more than willing to sacrifice whatever it takes, except for his own life.

As it turns out, Ra’s al Ghul is obsessed with Bruce Wayne. It’s disappointingly prosaic, really. It appears as if nothing that happens in Gotham excludes that teenage boy, who is somehow always in the middle of it, in one way or another. In this particular case, the role that awaits him is major: al Ghul keeps rumbling something about destiny, and heirs, and prophecies, and some bizarre two thousand years-old visions, and the city afire. The last one is the only part that appeals to Jeremiah: he’s got some fascination of sorts with flames.

Jerome is delighted about the opportunity to utilize his favorite plaything once again, and before Jeremiah is able to shut off the most dangerous train of thought, he is overcome with abyssal pit of jealousy. He dares not to question his own sanity, when the feeling is registered. How the fuck can he become jealous of _the voice in his own damned head_?!

However, it seems as something beyond the brink of lucidity only at first sight. In fact, he is more than understandably jealous, considering Jerome’s history with the teen. Jeremiah knows his brother and sees his interest in _”good ol’ Brucie”_ clearly, and it’s not like such a persistent, even obsessive interest will magically vanish after the resurrection, that’s all. He is perfectly sane.

This little auto-training helps to stabilize his emotions and focus outwards, and just in time, as al Ghul is finally moving on to far more urgent matters. The following negotiations and plan tuning leave both parties equally satisfied.

The members of the League of Shadows aren’t met with any difficulties while retrieving bombs from Wayne Plaza (Jeremiah would be surprised and sorely disappointed if they did — he presented them with each and every one of needed codes and his master keycard). As soon as confirmation of his prepay is delivered, Ra’s al Ghul and he head to Lazarus Pits.

The League members are securing his precious creations to support structures of all the bridges, that are currently connecting the city with the mainland, right at this very moment, but Jeremiah pays them no mind. All he can think about is the restorative properties of the waters.

He moves hastily with impatience when they finally arrive at their destination. His brother’s corpse in his arms weighs seemingly nothing, like a feather.

They come to a stop in front of folding door, shaped as a head of some sort of mystical creature, and after a moment it widely opens. Jeremiah follows his silent guide through a long row of halls and corridors. Ra’s al Ghul invokes in him neither interest nor disdain, and were their circumstances slightly different, he’d probably warn him about the impending attack. As it is, however, he finds Gotham too small for all three of them, which means his Saracen ally has to die and clear the scene for the worthiest. Moreover, for such an ancient being he’d do better with more wits and less obsessions. Honestly, there’s more to this world than just martial arts and Bruce Wayne, isn’t there? The gap between the reality and what could have become of the immortal being is painstaking.

The waters inside the pit leave Jeremiah mesmerized. They emit vibrant ghostly green light that seemingly radiates life itself, and for the first time since his latest encounter with Edward, Valeska allows himself to believe.

He slowly steps in, fully clothed, his brother gently secured in his arms, and dips his precious burden, careful not to let him slip. He stays perfectly still for the next few moments, holding his breath and fruitlessly trying to calm down his exploding heart, and than lifts him and lays atop the border. On his impatient way out Jeremiah clumsily slips. He instinctively shuts his eyes and mouth close, but not before taking in a mouthful of water. He resurfaces, grasping for air — _of course_ he’d have to endure that, any remotely significant amount of water makes him uneasy since childhood, after all! After that humiliation, feeling steady ground under his feet feels priceless.

“Your skin,” Ra’s al Ghul breaks the silence, which lingered since they stepped a foot inside the Yuyan Building. Jeremiah pulls off a glove and brings his palm closer to the eyes. Sure, his skin is still pale, but it definitely looks healthier, more human. Green-tinted waters reflect his clear face with same unnatural eyes, surrounded by wet hair, similar in color to his brother’s. Wait, his brother!

He immediately draws his gaze to Jerome and finely notices what has been bothering him since the pit. Jerome’s face is clear too, without all those customary scars! He looks almost foreign like this. Jeremiah stares, he certainly can’t bring himself to stop, not now. Jerome was beautiful with his disfigured face, he’d be no less beautiful after any mutilations, really, but right now, clean-skinned and overall fresh and calm, he is a god, and Jeremiah is his devoted priest.

He stretches a slightly trembling hand towards his Lord with reverence, utterly bewitched, and that’s when his frozen mind finally catches up to something.

“Why has he yet to open his eyes!?” Jeremiah exclaims, squeezing his brother’s hand with full force, mindless of any damage that might be inflicted upon it. He lows his head on the broad chest, attempting to catch another’s heartbeat beside his own. It’s slow, too slow for comfort, but it is there all the same.

“He’s been dead for a while, allow him some time,” answers Ra’s al Ghul, but Jeremiah pays him no mind. He is overwhelmed with joy and long-waited victory. He’s done it, he’s fucking done it! No one else but him! Jerome is alive now, and soon he’ll be awake. They are finally together, after all those years, spent in misery, aching for each other, unable to reach where they undoubtedly belong. It’s all over now, those pages are forever sealed.

As if spellbound, Jeremiah drifts closer to his other half’s face. He’d be unable to stop now even if he tried, but he doesn’t. Just a couple of gentle, feather-light pecks on Jerome’s lips, nothing more for now. His tastebuds are already flooding with something long forgotten. He hasn’t kissed anyone since leaving Jerome, preferring quick fuck to smallest semblance of intimacy. Funny how he could remain faithful in this even after brainwashing and memory altering.

“I’ll take him home and pick Bruce up,” he assures, hugging Jerome even closer on the way back to the city surface. “Hope your assassins won’t miss the signal, timing must be impeccable.”

Ra’s al Ghul only nods. His part of the deal is done, and now this vastly intelligent, albeit unhinged young man must hold to the rest of his own and kidnap the warrior’s heir, who is still too trusting for his own good. Ra’s is fairly certain that the engineer will follow through. His attitude towards his own twin brother is obvious, so his gratitude and willingness to repay for such a gift has to be something that may definitely be counted on.

**JVJVJV**

Jeremiah carefully lays his brother on the bed in his own bedroom (there’s a couple of spare ones, of course, but in this case it’s not an option), hooks him up to the I.V. drip and starts fluids — all by himself, as he is not comfortable enough to let anyone else but him, not even Ecco, touch Jerome. He tenderly caresses his brother’s moist curls, putting stubborn strands aside, and kisses his forehead, then the tip of his nose. Their old childhood ritual.

He’s done it! He still can hardly believe he’s damn well managed to pull all of this off. Fucking nobody believed in him, they’d all been sure he was just losing his mind over something irremediable — and look at him now! Look at Jerome, as good as new! And now all Jeremiah has to do is see to quick completion of the plan in motion, and than he’ll be able to spend all the time in the world with his brother. They’ll have to clear up a couple of moments and come back to themselves, most probably, before descending upon Gotham in all their glory. Together they’ll be unstoppable! Become living legends!

In the end he can do nothing except than trust Ecco with his precious brother. He leaves them to each other and transforms into Xander Wilde, immediately after heading straight to Wayne manor. On his way there he drops a hint or two for GSPD. He’s not at all sure about it’s efficiency, but trying doesn’t hurt, does it? Jerome’s rehabilitation requires utmost comfort and quality of goods, and total isolation would be counterproductive in that regard, he supposes. He might also still need this cover, so burning down all the bridges — figuratively as well as literary — seems a little bit premature.

Bruce welcomes him eagerly, albeit with evident worry crossing his forehead. That’s perfectly explainable, given the recent robbery. And he doesn’t even know about transformation of generators yet. Well, his ignorance will be remedied soon enough.

Jeremiah is yet to decide if he is to continue the charade or not, so he goes with the current — there’ll always be a time to rid himself of the tiresome mask. He quietly apologizes, eyes full of remorse.

Bruce is able to sense something, but not in time to prevent the injection in his jugular vein. Angry red dot on his neck is pronounced with a tiny drop of blood, and Jeremiah is almost mesmerized. He manages to catch his _friend’s_ falling frame before it hits the floor and quickly carries Bruce to the Shadows’ car, awaiting nearby. The manor garden is so vast that the butler, always attentive and distrustful towards Jeremiah, doesn’t notice a thing.

They arrive at the skyscraper, chosen by Ra’s, where all of them can watch the destruction from the front row, and Jeremiah, with practiced ease attracting nobody’s attention, sends the geolocation to Brucie’s bushy-haired little friend via the boy’s phone. The Wayne heir’s disappearance should definitely be noticed by now, and it won’t be long until the rescue squad arrives at the scene. Jeremiah is rather confident he won’t get caught in the crossfire, though.

Full-wall windows offer a breathtaking sight of Gotham, immersed in illusory tranquility. For a brief moment Valeska imagines himself staying here together with his brother, devoid of any intruders, and eagerly anticipating the beautiful carnage. He tenderly smiles before catching himself and clearing his face and mind.

The not so appealing reality is defined by commandeering voice of none other than Ra’s al Ghul — of course. Bruce has started to gain back consciousness, apparently, and Jeremiah is to deftly envelop his wrists in handcuffs, all the while managing to support the weight of the full-grown adolescent on the wedge of manhood. He’d kill the elderly warrior himself for such a disrespectful attitude, but any good role demands playing till the very end. The thought that he nevertheless has a hand in coming assassination, however obscure, calms him down somewhat. Moreover, his current predicament allows him whisper convincing lies and half-truths in Bruce’s ear with nobody the wiser. Said sort of entertainment is surely going to make all of this slightly less boring and provide a suitable distraction. Otherwise he’d be at risk of doing something stupid, considering his overwhelming desire to be in different place with different person right now.

“I’m so sorry, Bruce,” he barely whispers, noticing that Wayne is almost done gathering his bearings. “I wish I were as strong as you are. But I’m not, and Ra’s made a promise…” The words die down towards the end of the sentence.

Bruce noticeably shivers, however, it might be attributed to his circumstances by any bystander. At least his answering voice is on the same level as Jeremiah’s, which redeems him a little in his interlocutor’s eyes.

“What did he promise to you, Xander?”

“To give me my brother back. The way he had been before we got separated.” The engineer answers at last.

“Oh, Xander,” Bruce whispers after a pause, willing to communicate all his sympathy with these few syllables. How come he hasn’t noticed all the depth of turmoil of one of his closest friends? He doesn’t know how to say that Ra’s is prone to manipulations like this one, that Jerome was born like this, that nothing of it is his brother’s fault. He doesn’t want or probably even need to — Xander is smart enough to get it on his own. And most of all, he doesn’t know how to offer comfort — and isn’t that a laughable thought in these peculiar circumstances. He feels for his confused friend, such a genius in some things and a fool in the others.

Bruce strains to pat Xander on the arm that is holding him in rather useless gesture, mindless of handcuffs. His pseudo-captor shudders, and Wayne doesn’t need to see his face to know that its expression is full of guilt and shame.

Jeremiah, on the other hand, is glad Bruce is unable to catch notice of his disgust with these perceptive eyes of his. The sudden gesture caught him off guard. It shows how deep he’s been able to sink his claws in the boy, though, and this realization fills him with sick amusement. Such a pity that Brucie is his brother’s plaything — he himself would love to break, fix and break him over and over again.

“I tried to leave several tips for the GSPD, we may hope they won’t be late,” he offers, his emotions thoroughly in check. He himself knows better than bet on that, but Brucie’s hope is an exquisite thing, almost a delicacy.

Ra’s al Ghul is finally paying full attention to their captive now. He starts one of those endless ramblings of his, probably getting off of the sound of his own voice (there’s no other explanation, as far as Jeremiah is concerned). No one listens.

“Bombs!?” Bruce proves Jeremiah wrong. The supreme leader of the League of Shadows, however, seemingly doesn’t notice. He is intently staring at something below, then turns to Jeremiah and angrily barks:

“Interesting how they are blocking the traffic and evacuating the bridges right now. I have a feeling you might want to share something with us, Jeremiah.”

His face is devoid of any semblance of uneasiness, when he raises an eyebrow, utterly unimpressed, and opens his mouth, prepared to pronounce skillfully assembled words. Before he begins, however, he is interrupted.

“Interesting how you villains tend to spill all the plans aloud in abandoned warehouses, arrogantly assuming there’s no one to overhear, and then turn against each other when something goes wrong. You must be overly fond of your voice, Ra’s.” Bruce openly mocks their host. He doesn’t sound entirely convincing, and the chosen explanation itself isn’t actually flawless either, but that’s enough for Ra’s al Ghul, whose emotions are clouding his judgement. He definitely buys it and gets even more enraged.

“Fine, we’ll just have to begin the main performance a bit earlier then,” he spits out and closes his eyes, giving mental orders to his suicide bombers. At first nothing happens. All is eerily still for a few moments, like on the wedge of an impending storm, and then the explosions start.

The bridges disintegrate, aflame, one by one, as if nothing more than multimedia graphics. The fallen city is affected by power failures, leaving burning flames as the only source of illumination. It’s captivating, almost too beautiful, painstakingly so, and Jeremiah stays frozen with his brother’s trademark smile on his lips, forgetting to properly breathe. Jerome is laughing contagiously, utterly insane and free from shackles of humanity, and Jeremiah is facing a tremendous challenge of refraining himself from giving in to its ecstasy.

As if on clue, the rescue mission chooses this very moment to show up. It’s very easy to supply Bruce with a key and leave the fight behind in all of the encompassing chaos. High on the glorious destruction, Jeremiah flees to his brand new unspotted bunker, the one he moved into a week ago. He’s waisted there enough time as it is, no need staying to witness the outcome. Not when Jerome is waiting for him.


	5. Jerome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be slightly disappointing as it hardly contains what you thought it would. Can’t say I’m exactly sure about spilling all that weird shit that doesn’t even make sense half of time, but the idea stuck and I couldn’t get away from it, so what can I say? Endure. There’ll finally be full on interaction between our twins in the next update, I promise!  
Also, I’m aware of the concept of Lazarus Pits and that it shouldn’t work like that, nevertheless, Jerome had been dead for quite some time, unlike those who usually get revived by the waters, and there’s also that comics or cartoon or something about the Red Hood where resurrection didn’t go smoothly either, so I feel somewhat justified.  
Anyways, enough of my blabbering. Here you are.

Jerome is peaceful. Too peaceful to be considered simply sleeping — he probably hadn’t had decent enough sleep for years prior to his first death, much like Jeremiah himself. The younger twin (albeit technically he isn’t the younger one of the two anymore, is he?) would always jolt awake after couple of hours, confused and scared, filled with aftershocks of distorted images and strange desires which he fought so hard to suppress. Being who he is again, being _free_ from all the chains, implanted by Strange and later on by himself as well, is exhilarating. And the only thing that’s missing is situated right in front of him, ironically enough.

Jeremiah, despite all his hyperactivity and basically inability to rest, is certainly ready to watch Jerome’s calm face forever with unyielding attention and never get slightly bored. At the same time, he can’t help but imagine himself clutching at his brother’s limp form with enough force to draw blood, shaking him like a rag doll, literally beat consciousness into him. He doesn’t spare a thought to contemplate this dichotomy — such absurd contradictions have long since stopped bothering him in the slightest. It doesn’t seem like a high price to pay for returning to himself, anyway.

Time flows by, unnoticed. What does it matter now, whether he’s spent here a few hours or days? The concept is meaningless, futile. Nothing more than drawing on a seacoast. When _He_ wakes up, the sun will rise once again. Together they’ll read up on all the countless reports about the ongoings in their local post-apocalyptic world, dutifully collected by Ecco from the cultists, worshiping their — _his_ — god, not knowing yet that the current mayhem was caused not by him but by the most dedicated of worshipers as a side effect. Jerome is _so proud, little brother. You did wonderful_.

Until the dawn, however, nothing can bring Jeremiah to turn his gaze away even for a split second. And so he’s staring rapidly, as if his own life depends on it (truthfully, there aren’t any ‘ifs’).

At some point, though, exhaustion and overall stress must have taken their tall on him, ‘cause the next thing Jeremiah knows, he suddenly comes to, uncomfortably curled on the chair, his head on his brother’s abdomen. As soon as he registers what has joisted him awake, all the grogginess dissipates: Jerome is shaking with increasing amplitude, no longer resembling a lifeless doll.

Jeremiah climbs the bed in one swift motion, barely managing to catch his brother’s wildly flying hands in time. Jerome’s eyes, once identical to his own, now seem further from this resemblance than ever: they are bestial, without anything remotely akin to intelligence. Jerome fights with so much vigour, Jeremiah is certain he won’t be able to constrict him for long, regardless of his somewhat superhuman strength.

He feels despair crawling at the outskirts of his mind, closer and closer with each passing second. There’s something wrong with his brother, something that wasn’t cured by Lazarus Pits, and he isn’t sure that it is fixable at all, and he can’t call for help right now, while not exactly successfully attempting to subdue Jerome. Moreover, Jerome’s body underneath him is warm, responding, _alive_. They are too close for comfort, and Jeremiah hates himself, but can’t help his growing erection. How could he, really, when it’s Jerome, _everything_ around him is Jerome? And Jerome of course notices.

There’s nothing human in the growl that follows. Blinking, Jeremiah somehow finds himself underneath now, positions reversed. Bending towards his prey’s neck, Jerome sniffs, not unlike a wolf or a dog would, and exhales slowly. Thousands of goosebumps follow the path of warm air. And then Jerome thrusts his hips forward, and Jeremiah is gone.

“Jay,” he reverently whispers old childhood nickname, and it sounds like it belongs here, like it was made for Jeremiah’s lips and his only, nobody else’s. Yes, Jerome is out of his mind right now and can’t actually consent, but it’s impossible to stop and waste the opportunity. Not when he feels so glorious. Jerome will understand. “Jay, Jay, Jay, Jay, Jay…” he goes on and on, as if reciting a spell or a prayer, while his brother continues the thrusts with increasing speed. Jeremiah’s legs move apart of their own volition, and Jerome easily fits in between them.

He bends down once more and bites hard, drawing blood, and _oh fuck_ it’s too much. Jeremiah throws his head backwards, offering more space, and loudly moans. Jerome savagely accepts the gift.

The pleasure is fucking overwhelming. Jeremiah is desperately searching for something to ground him into reality, stumbling upon Jerome’s arms that are caging him. He clings to them as though to the ring-buoy, probably leaving bruises. He is too far gone to care.

Jerome stills. Lost in sensation, Jeremiah doesn’t even register it at first and chases the friction, enveloping Jerome’s waist with his legs. It’s only then when he notices that something is wrong through his haze.

His brother easily breaks free from his hold and grips his neck. There’s nothing sensual about the way he does it. It’s kind of hard with constricted windpipe, but Jeremiah manages to laugh. Goddamn it, couldn’t he be more stupid? Thoughts rapidly blink in and out of existence, darkening on edges more and more as the time goes by. It’s rather ironic, to pass away like this, he muses. Jerome is surely going to hate himself, he won’t be able to live past it. However, he still can’t find it in himself to put up a struggle. Probably has something to do with air cut off.

And then he is suddenly free to breathe again. He does, and falls asleep, instinctively hugging familiar warmth above.

**JVJVJV**

He emerges from inky nothingness slowly, another’s weight pinning him down to the mattress, making it almost hard to breathe. But it’s Jerome, and Jerome is allowed everything. Jeremiah regretfully disentangles himself, slightly tracing soft skin with his fingertips.

“Sleeping serum. I injected you with antidote,” Jeremiah snaps his head to Jonathan, whose soft voice breaks him out of his reverie. Crane looks embarrassed, but in no way shocked or appalled. Ah well, it’s not like he’s ever been exactly subtle. Knowing Jerome, he neither.

“Some new concoction of yours?” He lifts a curious brow, some semblance of his thirst for knowledge returning.

“Oh? Yes, I’ve made a breakthrough a couple of days ago while you were…” Jonathan falters, probably sensing the danger of finishing the phrase — wouldn’t be that hard after living with abusive father like his. “Gotham is totally isolated at the moment, as far as I know, they’ve yet to manage to form at least a radio connection with the mainland, never mind supplies shipments. Basically, it’s almost anarchy out there. The cops holed themselves up in the department and surrounding area, built around a barricade of sorts. The rest is divided between…”

“What’s wrong with him?” Jeremiah interrupts. He can’t stand idle chat about insignificant affairs right now. Besides, cultists are still worth something, after all. Espionage being one of those few things.

“Describe the symptoms,” his interlocutor immediately relents, tone subconsciously matching Jeremiah’s own. It’s one of the qualities that make him something more than just a chess peace. Jeremiah is actually even somewhat invested in kid’s future, no matter that he won’t ever admit it out loud.

Valeska clinically describes what’s happened, focusing on the vibes he received via twin bond. Crane knits his brows in thought.

“Sensory overload, probably? His synapses might be unusually sensitive, in that case, the brain wouldn’t have time and capability to process all the incoming signals and just… shut itself off, giving free reign to basic instincts. Severe defensive mechanism of sorts, I reckon.”

“So you are saying, his brain was overcome with workload and just induced similar to comatose state on itself — or rather, catatonic — until it deems itself ready to properly function once again? Seems like a… plausible theory to me.” Of course it is. The only one they have, no less. Jeremiah would have come to the same conclusions, if not for his nervousness and dare he say it, _fright_. “We’ll need machinery to make sure of it. Ecco!”

**JVJVJV**

Gotham’s isolation harbors first inconvenience (as Jeremiah feared it would). For the first time in their years together, Ecco proves herself unable to do his bidding and provide a functioning tomograph. The only one that works is located behind the walls of Gordon’s district, and they don’t have enough manpower to forcefully retract it.

Thorough discussion with Jonathan produces another plan. It still isn’t entirely safe, as most of their musings are based on assumptions, however, it’s best of what they have. They are going to lock Jerome’s senses away and then turn them on one by one. Jeremiah isn’t exactly thrilled by the perspective of experimenting on his own brother, but it will do. Far better than using the serum that helped Jeremiah to adjust after unleashing his memories — it’s been made with his not exactly human biology in mind. And also far more available option than transporting him to the mainland and threatening some qualified neurophysiologist into obedience.

Nevertheless, he orders Ecco to find a team for digging a tunnel, just in case. And then they begin preparations for making the first idea come true.

**JVJVJV**

Jerome in a state like this — not emanating his presence, not expressing thousands of different emotions in quick succession, nothing — resembles a carefully crafted mechanic doll rather than a person. In fact, he looked more alive in Pits-induced slumber, though that must be an illusion, probably inspired by his recent awakening. Jeremiah shudders in sync with Johnathan; funny how supposed fearless man is afraid of Jerome’s condition.

On second thought, not funny at all.

Shivering, Jeremiah makes an effort to redirect his gaze towards the tray with six syringes, innocently set on the bedside table. Each one of them contains pale liquid, different in everything — color, volume, consistence. The only similarity is evident unnaturalness of the hue, born from multiple complicated reactions between the reagents.

They repeat consecutive instructions for the umpteenth time, just to make sure that Jeremiah (with his eidetic memory, but whatever) won’t mess up anything vital. Jonathan’s encouraging smile couldn’t possibly be _less_ convincing, and he can’t shake off something akin to trepidation when left alone with his twin.

Crane is smart, brilliant even; he’s long since surpassed his despicable father, notwithstanding his own youthfulness and lack of higher education. Add to this his understanding and faithful nature, his ability to keenly sense the vague border between gratefulness and servility, admiration and infatuation, never once crossing the line, and it’s no wonder Jeremiah finds himself slightly attached to the boy, not experiencing any jealousness whatsoever due to his apparent closeness to Jerome. He wonders about the chain of events that led Jonathan to this point — unfortunately, his beloved brother decided to concentrate on more important things in his Arkham diary.

“Fuck! Stop it, you pathetic cowardly piece of shit!” Jeremiah reprimands himself in silent room, slapping himself in the face for attempt to prolong inevitable out of pure fear and indecisiveness. His hand is shaking when he grabs the first syringe.

**JVJVJV**

Jonathan and he intended to begin with sense of smell, he knows, however Jeremiah abruptly changes the decision; touch is more fundamental for Jerome, who favored tactile contact since early childhood. You’d think that constant abuse at the hands of their _loving family_ would quickly turn him away from this habit, as it happened to Jeremiah himself, but evidently not. Their last meeting before… before the fall proves that nothing has changed in this particular regard. Either that, or Jeremiah is exception.

Anyway, such a beginning will benefit them both. Jeremiah will be able to integrate himself more easily into his twin’s life by being here through all these hours of torture, playing on Jerome’s longing for gentle contact. It’ll also somewhat help to avoid severe arguments and drastic measures after their reunion. Win-win situation, all things considered.

Nothing happens in first few minutes after injection, and Jeremiah feels dread slowly rising from the depths of his mind, but then Jerome begins to twitch in obvious discomfort. The linens are made of the most delicate silk they could find, but that’s not enough, of course. Sudden return of even one sense must be overwhelming.

When Jerome calms down a bit and caresses soft material with just tips of his fingers, Jeremiah decides the moment to be most opportune for his next step. He carefully touches his brother’s forearm, not applying any pressure. Jerome flinches purely on instinct, but not pulls away. Jeremiah sees it as a victory.

Encouraged, he invites himself on the bed and cautiously hugs Jerome. After a moments hesitation his treasure hugs him back, corners of his lips slightly turned up, as if he isn’t used to such intimate gestures (probably not). It isn’t exactly likely, but Jeremiah willfully deludes himself into thinking that Jerome recognizes him. He hasn’t been happier in all his life.

Postponed sense of smell comes next. Methodically (almost obsessively, if Jeremiah would ever allow himself to dwell on it) selected sachets and aroma sticks, each and every one reminding of their shared positive experiences, are set on fire with equal intervals in-between. Jerome, it seems, takes to new experience better than the previous one, albeit slightly laying towards Jeremiah (who refuses to see it as a flaw).

He tightly embraces Jeremiah, just as he did in their childhood while seeking and simultaneously providing comfort after bitch’s beatings. Burning hate towards that piece of scum, whose only achievement in her miserable life was miraculously producing two perfections, is more familiar than this strange tenderness, but Jeremiah doesn’t let it devour him now.

Jerome roughly, deliriously whispers, “_Miah_,” and Jeremiah’s heart melts.

The flood of sweet memories is not an easy thing to handle, but he manages and discovers Jerome’s stiffen posture immediately after. Couple of seconds is enough to grasp the problem from his brother’s face, _just like before_. Of course Jerome would tense while facing one of his few phobias; why wouldn’t he when Zach and Lila did literally beat fear of going deaf into him. Jeremiah wants to throw himself off the cliff for such a horrible mistake.

Without further delay, he settles on remedying the damage. The next syringe in row is omitted; he grabs the second to last instead. It must return Jerome his hearing.

His brother doesn’t even flinch during injection, which is definitely atypical for a person with pronounced trust issues (not that Jeremiah could blame him). The only plausible explanation is that his brother understands now what’s going on, so he deliberately believes in it, throwing away other options because they simply don’t sit well with him. His cultivated talent in selective blindness comes in handy.

Turn from deafening silence to cacophony of noises surely has to be astounding. Feeling considerate, Jeremiah placates his uneven heartbeat and even breathing to the best of his ability. Some time later Jerome relaxes again, putting his head on Jeremiah’s chest with the same small upturn of lips.

“Miah?” he whispers with lingering uncertainty, which doesn’t have anything in common with his inability to see. Jerome will always recognize him, without a doubt.

“Jay,” he quietly responds, breathing becoming erratic under overcoming pressure of emotions. God, he’s done it! Jerome is here, alive and coherent! He’s fucking_ snatched _him out from death! The arms that envelop him squeeze tighter, past the point of pain, but he couldn’t care less. Not when it’s all he ever wanted. His brother, his lover, his everything. His entire universe in form of warm lean body, identical to his own.

Jerome _purrs_ on his chest, satisfied, slightly stroking his shoulder and arm, and Jeremiah is almost worried that he’ll notice the army of goosebumps he’s caused with his actions. Attempts to clear mind of enticing images are laughable, and the younger gives up; he blabbers endearments and confessions, mixed with begging for forgiveness, absolutely unable to stop.

And then Jerome does what he’s always done in situations such as this. He presses his mouth to Jeremiah’s, not quite kissing, just a short peck on his lips.

Just one more second — and Jeremiah would have unfrozen. One more second — and he’d turn this _not-quite-kiss_ into a real one, hungry, passionate and raw. In hindsight, his stupor has probably saved him. He doesn’t doubt that Jerome is truly devoted to him, but does this include _infatuation_, the same as Jeremiah’s own? (He promptly ignores the words ‘_unhealthy obsession_’ that briefly cross his mind.)

The thing is, he doesn’t in fact have a clue. Jerome’s body language suggests nothing, his diary contains nothing. It’s fucking immensely frustrating.

However, Jeremiah is patient. He can wait for a very long time and see. And he’ll be able to turn the tables in his favor if needed, he’s certain of that.

He almost —_ almost_ — misses the right moment for the next injection, too engrossed in his scheming of all possible scenarios. Thankfully, Jeremiah resurfaces on time. Jerome’s taste buds return without a scratch, and they discuss little things — nothing serious for now.

When it’s nearing time for the last shot, Jerome’s discomfort is evident for someone who knows him well enough. He doesn’t voice it, of course, but then again, Jeremiah would be surprised otherwise.

He drops the blindfold (successfully willing away all the images that are clouding his mind) and tries not to worry too much. Has something gone wrong at last?

“Jerome?” he requires carefully, caressing his brother’s tense cheekbone.

“Headache”

Such short-spoken answer is telling enough, what with Jerome’s loathing of displaying weaknesses. It must be more than prominent then.

Jeremiah doesn’t say anything about concealing his condition; some battles just aren’t worth partaking, and this one is definitely one of them. Not to mention there’re more pressing matters to attend to right now.

He contemplates the vial with all too familiar concoction, but sees no other option. They discussed such a possibility with Jonathan, after all. Hopefully this custom-made for Jeremiah gas will ease his twin into processing reality, calming down stringing brain sells without any lingering negative effects. Hopefully.

“I used this after return of my memories, suffering from the same… inconvenience,” he begins uncertainly, abruptly cutting himself off at the sight of his brother’s pained expression. Alright then. No use dwelling on it now, not when Jerome is obviously in dire need of help. Jeremiah’s hands are terribly shaking, but he manages to uncork the vial directly in front of Jerome’s face.

His twin inhales deeply, muscles almost immediately relaxing in dreamless sleep. Hesitating no longer than a moment, Jeremiah makes the last injection. There’s no need to prolong Jerome’s vulnerability without a reason, after all. No matter how much he wants to take care of him in such a state. Jeremiah is perfectly sane and won’t indulge in such perverse impulses at his beloved brother’s expense.

**JVJVJV**

Jeremiah knows better than anyone that Jerome is not going to wake up anytime soon. He’s got personal experience to back it up, for fuck’s sake! _He knows that!_

Any logic, however, trembles in the face of his worry. He aimlessly wonders the vast space of his maze-like bunker, every few minutes returning to its master bedroom like a loyal dog.

Some indefinite amount of time later he finds himself unable to concentrate even on drawing little intricate mazes with his steps (a child exercise, always therapeutic for his inner turmoils). He’s done everything in his power for now and is left to rot in waiting, and he _hates_ it. His patience wears thin these days, it seems.

The fact that he has somehow become so uncharacteristically emotional is grating in itself, which doesn’t help any. It’s no wonder then that he ends up at the doorstep of Oswald’s accommodating room; his only sort of entertainment in the bunker, which is completely empty save for the tree of them.

Oh, but he dearly hopes he won’t decide the traitorous fuck’s fate behind Jerome’s back. His beloved would definitely be displeased with development such as this.


	6. Jeremiah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the chapter isn’t up to your standards. I accidentally erased the whole text while copying it, and that left me in fucking pieces, you know. Had to rewrite it as best as I could from my questionable memory, thus I can’t guarantee satisfying quality here, but can’t drawn in self-pity anymore either.  
There’s still no Jerome/Jeremiah interaction, ‘cause I had to split the chapter in two. I also hope that the title isn’t confusing, as you’ll see no Jeremiah in here. Not directly, at least. It doesn’t mean the part is any less Jeremiah-centered, though. The featured characters literally think about him almost constantly, which I hope gives us great opportunity to glimpse his personality from outside resources (all of them unreliable, but no matter).  
Enjoy!

“It’s not that I’m exactly surprised,” Oswald muses out loud, if only just to hear his own voice in the open, breathing in deeply dump air in some shady muddy side lane, still lying beside a dustbin where he’s been off-handedly thrown out no longer than a mere minute or two ago. Gotham never tasted sweeter.

Fine, actually, he is. Surprised, that is. With how twitchy and _out of control_ Jeremiah had seemed, Oswald is relieved to find himself still alive at this point. Surely, he gets the idea that one more resurrection attempt of who knows how many must have gone terribly awry for his always so composed (even during his fits of rage) captor to act like this, holding together shreds of self-restraint on nothing short of miracle, and the Penguin was let go sorely because of that entirely justified fear to lose it prematurely. But it still doesn’t explain what exactly happened and how come Jeremiah’s yet to realize all the futility of his actions with that truly remarkable mind of his. Ah well, willful blindness must run in family, he believes. Fuck those insane Valeskas and their incestuous obsessions.

_”You decide to share your sob story with our dearest friend Jimbo — you die. Anyone else miraculously becomes aware of any of your experiences and revelations_ again_ — you die. You neither run your filthy mouth nor intervene in our affairs — you live,” Jeremiah lists it all calmly, without slightest infestation in his voice. Oswald doesn’t doubt for a second what the word ‘our’ implies, and the thought makes him sick. “For now, at least. Your fate is forfeited, but it’s not my right to decide it. We’ll both have to wait for what Jerome will have to say about this, I’m afraid.  
“Worry not, it shouldn’t take too long. Feel free to do what you please until then. Write your will, attempt to flight, put together those pitiful scraps of humanity you fancy calling your_ empire_ or something. I don’t have much expertise in inner workings of cowardly traitorous sociopaths with intelligence well below average and couldn’t care less.”  
And Oswald silently trembles like a leaf under that indifferent, but somehow malicious gaze, like he always does._

He shakes his head now, futilely trying to get rid of those terror-inspiring images. Damned Valeska the Second might very well delude himself into wholeheartedly believing in his own sanity, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is completely bonkers. Probably even more so than his infamous twin.

Wait, the fuck is going on here? Oswald hasn’t really noticed it until now, but everything seems significantly… off. And there aren’t any people in streets. In the middle of a day. Not exactly that far from the city center.

He continues onwards without any destination in head, outwardly unperturbed, albeit muttering to himself all the while. “Just what the h-“

Oh god. Jesus fucking Christ. Are those… bridges?

He carefully examines a place where connection between Gotham and the mainland _used to be_, then another one in the periphery of his eye, which almost mirrors the first, as if enough scrutiny could remedy the damage or at least gift him with an insight on the matter. On second thought, he probably doesn’t actually need it. It’s not like there are many psychotic bastards who are unable to grasp the concept of grieving, resourceful, intelligent and insane enough to pull off something of this magnitude around there, is it?

Goddamn it! Jeremiah is the most fucking dangerous person he’s had a fucking misfortune to encounter in all his fucking life as fucking criminal!

He shakes his head once again, trying to ignore rising bile in his throat and a lovely migraine.

Just what does he do now?

**JVJVJV**

In the end he decides that the Narrows is as good a place as any, considering he doesn’t know a thing about current state of affairs. Gotham is always rather dynamic, not easy to catch up with after a few weeks _absence_, not to mention latest events that must have shaken the city to its very foundations. It would be a suicide to wander off home unprepared.

Edward probably (definitely) won’t be exactly thrilled to see him now, but surely he won’t turn him down. One good turn deserves another and all that.

It’s not like he’s even going to request anything complicated from his former friend. Just a short summary of the past events and a couple of phone calls will do, nothing more. Besides, Ed is to his knowledge the only other person to survive Valeska, the only safe option to pour some of heavy thoughts that weigh down his mind to.

He shudders, wraps closer around himself same jacket he wore all those weeks ago (the question ‘how many’ keeps nagging at him relentlessly).

“Yes, it will work,” his nod is determined and meek all at once.

**JVJVJV**

Bruce wants — _needs_ — to find Xander. _Or Jeremiah,_ whispers traitorous voice from the back of his mind.

“Whatever,” he retorts aloud, feeling stupid and probably a little bit insane. It might be just sleep deprivation, he comforts himself.

True, he hasn’t had half decent night sleep since even before the Bridges. Since the very first rumor concerning reappearance of Ra’s al Ghul, to be precise.

He pauses and shakes his head in futile attempt to bring his wandering mind back to focus on the task at hand. Only due to resolute decision to attend to this matter immediately after the current ordeal is over, as well as months of training by Sensei (“_Do not_ dwell on it _now_, you moron,” he berates himself), Bruce is able to get back on track.

And as it seems, just in time.

He almost doesn’t believe his eyes at first. Notorious Oswald Cobblepot, absent since the grave incident (which is rather telling in itself, as those involved, himself included, tend to believe) and presumed dead, casually strolls towards _Cherry’s_, the current Queen’s headquarters. Fucking impossible!

An indeterminate amount of vicious pinches later the picture doesn’t change, and Bruce is forced to accept it as reality. Unable to tame his curiosity (and truthfully, a bit of hope), he cautiously follows, discreetly jumping from roof to roof.

On second glance, the Pinguin doesn’t resemble his usual collected and confident self at all. His false bravado is like a thin transparent piece of glass, and Bruce frankly can’t fathom how he could miss it. His unsteady hopes become somewhat stronger. 

God, what if Xander’s plans succeeded and Ra’s somehow returned Jerome to sanity (or gifted it to him, more likely)? That’d explain the Pinguin’s release from incarceration. But then again, why had he been captured and not killed, seemingly not tortured even, if that is the case? Jerome definitely hadn’t been of sound mind back then and weeks after. Plenty of time to do as he pleased with a double traitor.

Bruce frowns, frustrated. It all just doesn’t make sense!

He also isn’t any closer to untangling the mass of contradictions that is his emotions. He understands Xander’s motivations and the fact that he had been manipulated to a certain degree, sure, but does it really excuse the devastation of Gotham? Or rather, can he forgive his friend for the part he’d played in this and move past it? What sort of person does it make him, if the answer is there all along, despite his refusal to acknowledge it and face himself?

He stumbles upon a chair directly in the entryway and curses internally. Damn his teenage hormones and subsequent inner turmoils! He strains his ears, but can’t hear anybody moving to investigate. In fact, are those… sobs?

With erratically beating heart Bruce crawls forward, feeling distinct uneasiness. Just what’s going on here?

Oh.

_Oh._

Cobblepot is in honest to god hysterics, and Bruce himself is damn near close. Spread as if on some sort of macabre painting, there lay Lee and Nygma, tightly embracing each other. Both are unmoving and covered in blood. Fuck, there’s _so much_ blood.

Unbidden, images of his parents in that ill-starred alley resurface. Bruce blinks away his tears and makes a conscious effort not to scream. He absolutely cannot afford alerting the Penguin of his presence now; if he himself feels awful, facing the kind woman’s corpse, Cobblepot is terrifyingly devastated and unhinged. He wails like a dying animal, while Bruce just stands almost in the open, frozen, and doesn’t have a single clue on what to do.

**JVJVJV**

“Ed!” Oswald cries, losing every last bit of composure. Uncomprehending, he throws himself at Shakespearian image of devastation, willing to chase away the horrific significance of it but unable to do so. He wails, clenching the unmoving figure of his friend, completely gone and unresponsive to the world around him, until… wait, is it?..

Badly shaking hands tear fabric of Edward’s shirt open, allowing better access. Oswald presses his ear to his friend’s chest, straining to hear something, _anything_.

Nothing. For several long seconds-minutes-eternities the only heartbeat is his own — wild, erratic. And then — a sound. A few moments later another one, unmistakably clear.

_He’s alive!_

Panic comes back in full force then. Just what does he do now, without his minions or resources in drastically changed, almost unfamiliar now Gotham?

Oswald absentmindedly checks on Dr. Thompkins, not really surprised to find here alive as well, but pays her no heed. She isn’t the one who is important right now.

“Think, Oswald, think!” He mutters, utilizing every ounce of willpower to calm down and process the situation at hand straight on.

Alright, what does he have there? Edward and his latest fucking obsession, both bleeding to death. The meaning behind the conflict shouldn’t concern him now, but he’d bet it has something to do with Jeremiah. _Everything does._

“Focus!” he growls, irritated at himself (and Valeska by proxy) for unwanted distraction. So, what does he do? Or actually, what is he able to do within current proceedings? More importantly, does he even have to do anything, to force his help upon… whom, exactly? Edward? Both?

He shudders, thinking about Isabella. If there is even sightliest of chances Edward still harbors some feelings for Thompkins… No, he definitely doesn’t want the history to repeat itself, thank you very much.

His mind made up, he proceeds to find a phone and dial long since memorized Jim’s number, refusing to thing on ramifications of his actions.

“J-Jim, I- It’s Oswald. I have to tell you something.” He doesn’t acknowledge shocked gasp and quick succession of questions from the other end of the line, instead talking about the scene he’s found at Narrows as calmly as he’s able, omitting the fact that both lovers are still alive just in case he won’t manage to deliver Doc in time to the GCPD.

Jim is mad. Fuck, he should’ve known he won’t be willing to help Edward after their shared past. Well then…

Hot-wiring the closest car available is child’s play, really. He drags two bodies into the vehicle and starts towards the very same alleyway he was dumped at, sweating profusely. He’s a dead man walking at this point, surely.

The side line is just as he left it, with no sign of anything concealed within. He feels stupid for even considering coming back here, let alone actually doing it. Just what the hell was he thinking? There’s nothing suggesting that the entrance is even…

Wait. Never mind. Is that a camera zooming in? Who on earth would put it there, in the middle of literally nowhere, unless it’s the one person he fears most?

“I know you have plenty of cameras there. Please, help him as he helped you, I know gratitude is not a foreign concept for you. Please, I don’t know what else I could do,” he begs, mindless of snot and tears that rather ugly cover his face. He gently lays Edward down and slowly heads backwards, hands lifted in universal gesture.

He never once glances over his shoulder until halfway towards the GCPD, feeling a little more safe. Not that his fate isn’t sealed now after yet another betrayal.

All that’s left is hope. After all, third time is a charm, they say.

**JVJVJV**

Cobblepot expertly steals a car, and Bruce is suddenly very alert. He couldn’t care less about the action being unlawful right now, what truly concerns him is how is he supposed to follow someone on a car. By foot.

He climbs like a cat on a nearby roof — _just like Selina taught_ — and hopes beyond hope that their destination won’t be far from here and that the Penguin won’t break speed limits too much. The latter, of course, proves futile.

They were, however, heading somewhere close, as it turns out. Bruce couldn’t be more grateful.

The criminal exits his car, grabs Nygma and comes to a stop in… a shady alleyway? Just what the…

Oh.

He starts speaking, determinedly staring at a small read light of a camera. What use does it have in such godforsaken place, if not for guarding something — like an entrance to some secret location, for example? It must be it, there’s no other way.

Bruce doesn’t follow Cobblepot when he leaves, doesn’t need to. After all these days of aimlessly wandering around he finally — _finally!_ — has a solid lead. He refuses to let himself hope it’ll be Xander himself, just patiently waits for _someone_ to collect the corpse. Or more accurately, not the corpse but an injured body. It’s fucking unfair that this prick still has a chance while Lee is gone, Bruce thinks, angry tears threatening to blur his vision.

His attention snaps to a wall, no less inconspicuous then the ones surrounding her. The wall in question, however, _moves_. Parting bricks give way to all too familiar figure. Ecco, Xander’s proxy and confidant. He’s been right then!

Ecco easily lifts Nygma’s body, seemingly not affected by its weight at all. Bruce pays it no heed. His thoughts form a devilish whirlpool, he can’t decide what to do. Sure, his endless search has just turned out to be successful, but he is somehow at a loss of what to undertake next.

It’s not like he’s got much time to contemplate things, however. Ecco has almost reached the safety of new bunker by now. Casting one last glance on his phone (_Commissioner won’t believe that Xander was simply misled anyways_, his mind helpfully supplies), Bruce lingers at the precipice for a moment, feeling like Harry Potter in girls’ lavatory.

He braces himself and follows.

**JVJVJV**

Fucking Cobblepot resurfaces out of nowhere, with no sign of Nygma and barely alive Lee in the back seat of hot-wired car. Jim supposes he can’t blame him for a minor crime in situation such as this.

The Pinguin is shaking all over, words totally intangible. When their former medical examiner is safely deposited in the medical wing, he is still a complete mess. As far as Jim can recall, he hasn’t had an opportunity to see his friendly enemy in such sorry state in… well, ever.

And then his teeth somewhat stop insane chatter, and it’s Jim’s turn to desperately clutch his hair.

It turns out, Jeremiah Valeska is the worst nightmare imaginable out of everything that could befall poor Gotham. Of course his gut has tried to warn him on multiple occasions that something is not quite right with the reclusive engineer. His overconfidence, his egoism, his dismissive attitude towards human lives, his paranoia and all that little contradictions that Jim couldn’t exactly place at the time. His confession about at least a little twisted childhood truths, ripped from him by Jerome at the bunker. The truths that were so readily accepted during their first meeting by Harvey and himself, no sliver of lies sensed. All of it must have meant something, but it didn’t. Not when it still mattered.

The reality is so much worse.

The city is ruined (and just as a ruse, without any effort whatsoever put into action, it seems). A short-tempered psychopath with intellectual capacity of a genius and undefined amounts of manpower, obsessed over his infamous brother’s death, is on the loose. And Bruce…

_Oh god, Bruce!_ The kid is chasing said psychopath out of some misplaced obligation, not even knowing what he’s getting himself into.

For all Jim knows, the kid might be dead already. He wants to give in to the thought that he would sense something bad happening to Bruce, almost a son he never had. He needs to believe in something, have some faith, and so he chooses to believe in Bruce.

His heart is heavy when he calls the kid.

“I’m sorry, the cell phone you are trying to reach is currently switched off or out of range,” informs him the mechanical voice. _Of course, why wouldn’t it be?_

Oswald doesn’t need much _persuasion_ to agree on showing them the location in his current state. In any other circumstances Jim would feel remorse for exploiting his weakness, but as it is, he easily stomps on pang of guilt and moves on. He’s got a rescue (or death penalty) mission to prepare.


	7. Mr. and Mr. J

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo... here you are. The longest chapter at your disposal. Featured ambiguous ending with a handful of loose ends.  
Which reminds me, do you wish to fill the gaps on your own? In that case I’ll make it into series and post the epilogue of sorts as a sequel, so you’ll be able to decide whether to read it or not. Otherwise there’s gonna be 8th part sometime soon.  
Anyways. Hope the conclusion is at least somewhat likable, dears. Thank you all for being there with me along the way.  
P. S. I’ll be most obliged if you check out my brand new au with Jerome surviving the fall and a serial killer on the loose here.

Oswald proves to be quite an entertainment, but the distraction is short lived, and now Jeremiah is once again pacing back and forth, unable to stop even for a moment. Jerome is sleeping peacefully in short distance, completely unaware of all the ruckus he caused in his younger brother. Not that Jeremiah ever intends to tell him about any of that and boost his ego in such a way, of course.

He occupies himself with contemplating his latest decision. At the moment letting Oswald go seemed completely reasonable, however now he can’t help thinking it was probably a mistake on his part. An unnecessary risk, potentially able to complicate things rather significantly. What if Oswald decides to loose his tongue on the matter? It wouldn’t be worth risking killing him before Jerome awakens then.

He almost expects it when Ecco comes barging in the antechamber he is situated in, but it sure as hell doesn’t make him any less angry. In fact, he’s enraged.

“I told you I am not to be bothered!” His harsh words are accompanied by a shot. The bullet just cuts a loose strand of her hair, though. Ecco is too valuable to release his pent-up tension on.

His accomplice is visibly shaken, but the problem she depicts turns out to be definitely urgent. One of his GCPD spies overheard Gordon talking to Oswald. “Something about his ex and Nygma,” he added.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Jeremiah can’t believe he’s been so careless. Of course the brewing conflict between Edward and Thompkins escalated because of the bridges! They must have killed or at least severely injured each other, there’s no other way for Oswald to seek support from his beloved Commissioner. Edward’s inability to provide it is the only likable option. If not for Jerome occupying most of his mind, Jeremiah would’ve definitely forseen it.

_Think, think, think, you idiot! What do we have there?_

Oswald’s sole chance now is to strike first. If he shows where he’d been thrown off, it won’t be hard even for Gordon and his merry band of half-decent cops to find the main entrance to his bunker. That means he needs to distract them at least long enough for Jerome to wake up. It wouldn’t do to confront anyone here now, not with his brother so helpless and vulnerable no more than a few feet away.

Best case scenario will be eliminating the threat at the root; it’s not like he has dozens of convenient warehouses available, after all. Not getting humiliated in front of Jerome also won’t hurt, he believes.

That’s why at the moment he finds himself planting one of remaining bombs with couple of sidekicks. He doesn’t even bother with disguising himself as Jerome this time around, but wisely (disappointingly, as he could use a stress reliever right about now, truth be told) nobody objects.

Jeremiah loosens up a bit, thinking about the Mayor and other insignificant sheep who pretend to rule the city blowing up, but of course his slightly improved mood doesn’t last long. Ecco calls to inform him about Oswald showing up with two presumably not quite corpses in tow. Stupid bitch must have completely lost her mind to let him go, and Jeremiah doesn’t hesitate to tell her exactly that.

She mumbles apologies and excuses, of course; being afraid to reveal the bunker’s location and having no order to capture the traitor or something along those lines. He pays her no heed.

Jeremiah methodically shoots both of disposable sidekicks, taking his time with the second one. Rage somewhat sated, he calls her back and calmly orders to pick up Edward and help him if she’s still able to.

Only then he contemplates new development. Intercepting Oswald en route is surely not an option by now. Might as well place the second bomb into position and head towards the GCPD as planned.

**JVJVJV**

Bruce loses sight of Ecco almost immediately, despite her carrying a weighty body. In hindsight, he should have expected such twist of events. Or better yet, not indulge in his borderline suicidal curiosity and just dial Jim or Alfred and be done with it. If he just listened to voice of reason for once, he wouldn’t be wandering dark oppressive tunnels now, each one exact copy of the previous and the next.

His own plaguing thoughts doesn’t help any, either.

_What was Cobblepot talking about? What business could Xander possibly have with the likes of Nygma of all people?_

“Fuck!” He hisses, dumping into the wall with full force, not expecting a sharp turn to the left. Moreover, the maze is barely lit in such a fashion that it’s really hard for his eyes to adjust even a little bit.

Despite the rough industrial impression with all these crumpling poor painted walls and running water (things definitely unbecoming of the esteemed engineer, always so neat and pristine), the structure seems pretty thought through, deliberate. Unusual for its creator, yes, but no less finished masterpiece. Bruce would be telling lies if he said that it doesn’t concern him.

Xander’s wish to hide is more than understandable, really, but this…

Some force heavily pushes into him from his right, momentarily throwing him off balance. It’s too dark to see clearly, but the unhinged smile can’t be mistaken. It’s all Jerome. His voice, however, doesn’t sound as shrieking as usual, more like the one he barely remembered since before Galavan’s stab.

“Whaddaya doin’ in here, Brucie?” He asks with derogative condescension. Nothing new here, then. Jerome’s face, however, certainly is.

In such a close proximity (slamming into walls allows these small luxuries, it turns out) the difference becomes evident. There’s no more scars, Jerome’s face looks smooth and unblemished. For a second Bruce can’t help thinking it’s his brother instead. And then Jerome opens his mouth and _laughs_.

“Oh, I wish you could see your expression now, Brucie dearest. Comedy gold, I tell ya!.. What, cat got your tongue?” He winks almost teasingly, if not for a dangerous glint in his eyes and deadly grip on Bruce’s arms. Bruce flinches and immediately hates himself for showing weakness in front of his enemy.

“Y-your fa-face,” he stammers, as though he is that naive preteen alone with a madman amidst dozens of distorting mirrors all over again.

“My face?” His captor exaggeratedly twirls his head round, as if not quite grasping the meaning behind half-formed question. “Ah, sure thing, kid! Ya see, my lil ol’ broski patched me up rather nicely somehow. Waddaya think? Ain’t I handsome now?”

Jerome tuts disapprovingly, receiving no response. His pout is no less theatrical then usual, too, albeit it looks — dare Bruce admit it — almost _cute_ without those scars. Crazy psychopaths shouldn’t be so good-looking, damn it!

“Hold on, hold on! Ya ain’t gonna even marvel at the fact that I’m back again? That’s real pity, I tell ya!”

Bruce puffs indignantly. Just who does this sick bastard think he is, playing him around like this!?

“As if there’s a soul in Gotham which isn’t aware of that yet after all these weeks. Drop your act, Jerome, we aren’t investigating your mother’s death!” He retorts, rather proud of himself for such a stupid pun.

For a whole of couple of seconds Jerome looks believably dumbstruck, as if he can’t for the life of him process Bruce fighting back. Serves him well, the teen supposes.

That is, until Jerome blinks with something akin to comprehension and suddenly starts to laugh, delightful, hysterical and gone more than ever. He even loosens his vice-like hold on Bruce a bit.

“Holy fuck, ‘Miah sure as hell messed you up all right! That’s _hilarious_!”

Bruce doesn’t understand what he means, but he doesn’t really have time to think on it. Small opening is all that he needed, and now that he has it he slams his knee in Jerome’s abdomen and breaks free, using element of surprise to his full advantage.

He runs as though his life depends on it (no exact exaggeration here, truth be told), not comprehending where he turns. Everything around him is a blur of same corridors, but at least he’s lost Jerome somewhere along the way. All that matters now is finding the fucking exit and getting the hell out of there. Jeremiah’s plan, whatever it had been, clearly didn’t work. Right?

**JVJVJV**

Jim is in the middle of assembling his forces when one of guards on the wall calls. He doesn’t really have time for it now, but it might be something of import.

Turns out it’s exactly that. The guard reports appearance of none other than fucking Valeska, alone and seemingly unarmed. The Commissioner could of course order to shot the bastard on spot and be done with it, but surely it can’t be that simple. Not to mention they may never see Bruce again, neither dead nor alive, in that case.

That’s why couple of minutes later he finds himself face to face with deranged psychopath of an engineer. The red dot of sniper rifle in the middle of said psychopath’s forehead is not as reassuring as he thought it would be.

“Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo, long time no see,” begins his interlocutor with something akin to a smile, but not quite.

“Where’s Bruce!?” he interrupts.

Fucking Jeremiah seemingly doesn’t even notice his words, which of course cannot be true. His expression never slipping, he proceeds to calmly request Cobblepot.

“You are in no position to demand anything, Jeremiah. Tell me where Bruce is before I order to shot you!”

“Oh, but I am,” Valeska definitely smiles now, deranged, outwardly pleased with something nobody except him knows. Without a care in the world he slowly pulls his hand from the pocket, firmly clenching an all too recognizable object. “Dead man’s switch, you familiar? Funny that you think _you_ are in a position to demand something from me, Jimbo.”

Jim freezes on the spot like a deer in headlights. This shit can’t be really happening, can it?

Apparently yes.

“So what about Oswald, hm? Surely that piece of scum isn’t worth more than lives of innocent citizens of Gotham. You might even consider it a public service, really. Purging of sorts.”

“How do I know-“

“Glad you are up to a risk, Commissioner. Seeing is believing, after all,” in swift, albeit exaggerated gesture Jeremiah produces a second detonator out of his overcoat, safely concealed within the confines of his other pocket until now, and Jim simply cannot stand it.

“Wait!” he shouts, as if able to stop the sicko with words alone. To his surprise, Jeremiah pauses.

“You are no fun, Jimbo, you know?” he sighs, pouting, which would be adorable under different circumstances. “Fine. I want Oswald, and I want him now. If you do it, nobody else has to die.”

«Willing to consider exchange? Cobblepot for Bruce?” Jim asks, desperately bidding time in order to think of something he can do. Unfortunately, nothing comes to mind.

Valeska’s entire demeanor changes in split second. He no longer smiles, instead sporting barely concealed murderous rage.

“Why is it always about the brat!?” he venomously hisses, appearing as perfect illustration to hate, mixed with… jealousy? Without further ado he pulls the trigger of second detonator.

The City Hall erupts in flames.

Jim stands here, terrified of what just happened, in front of this… this _monster_, who looks completely enthralled. Just what sort of person finds something like this _mesmerizing_!?

Unhinged psycho, that’s who. His chilling laugh echoes throughout the square, easily overriding people’s cries and screams.

And just as abruptly Jeremiah sobers up, his deranged smirk firmly in place.

“You are a total killjoy, Jimbo. Quite literally, I’d say,” he has the audacity to offer. “Well then, where was I again? Ah yes! I’m afraid we’ve had a little misunderstanding there. Things got somewhat blown out of proportion, didn’t they? Glad we’ve made it through this friendly dispute.” He empathizes his last words, clearly awaiting confirmation.

“_Exactly_,” spats Jim, battling overwhelming urge to strangle fucking sick bastard right then and there.

“Good. Now, if you please hand over our dear friend Oswald, it would be greatly appreciated. Unless, of course, you are looking forward to another demonstration. Atheists these days,” he solemnly shakes his head. “If that’s the case, I’d _love_ to be of assistance.”

Jim slowly turns to the precinct, willing his heavy limbs to move. Jeremiah may or may not be bluffing now, sure, but his conscience won’t survive it if he doesn’t.

“Oh, by the way,” the terrorist calls to his back. “I find myself unable to fathom where exactly you got this idea, but I definitely doesn’t have anything to do with Bruce’s disappearance. This city can be a dangerous place for a kid his age, you know.”

Jim doesn’t even bother to point out whose fault it is if something else happened to Bruce due to current unstable situation on streets (not to mention Wayne’s self-destructive search). At least Jeremiah genuinely seems to know nothing concerning Bruce’s whereabouts. Probably.

**JVJVJV**

Bruce is completely out of breath, any sense of direction whatsoever lost somewhere along the chase, when he is shoved hard into the wall. _Again._ Really, what is it with Jerome and his physicality? He’d much rather prefer Xander’s avoidance of direct contact right about now, all his recent doubts about elder friend be damned. It’s probably just Jerome meddling and prodding, anyways.

He futilely fights against firm hold, not really expecting it to bulge (and not achieving it, of course).

He still doesn’t know what to make of Jerome being there and in such a good health. Things just doesn’t add up. There is, however, one almost-certainty, one fling of hope he decides to cling onto.

“X-Xander isn’t going to like you messing with me,” he whispers, trying to reassure mostly himself and not allowing any amount of his uncertainty to be seen. Surprisingly, he doesn’t have to try even remotely hard to succeed.

“Fuckin’ unbelievable!” His tormentor chuckles, astonished. “On second thought, it shouldn’t have been such a stretch to believe at all. Who knows him better than me? Lil punk is a fuckin’ riot, I tell ya!”

“What… what are you talking about?” Bruce croaks, bidding his time.

“Oh I don’t know. Whaddaya think?”

The thing Jerome is not so thinly implying right now… It’s… unthinkable. Bruce refuses to acknowledge it even in form of possibility, as he did with all those tiny warning signs he expertly turned blind eye onto, violently pushing unbidden blasphemous thoughts in one of deepest corners of his mind behind bars, adding extra locks. He won’t let down a friend. Never again. There’s simply no way!

“Oh my. What is it he so _delightfully_ spoon-fed you?” Jerome’s laugh is the same unhinged, derisive one, but there’s something else in here. A hint of pain and something akin to old, long-suffered betrayal.

Maybe that’s why Bruce answers truthfully. Or answers at all, to be more precise. Self-preservation surely wouldn’t have led him this far, at any rate.

He starts to speak about their first meeting, and Jerome’s death (and isn’t that just downright ridiculous in these precise circumstances?), and Jeremiah’s — _Xander’s_ — worrisome state after. Words flood like a waterfall, Bruce just seemingly can’t help articulating all that gathered inside him during these months, begging to be set free. He is surprised when Jerome isn’t spurred on by mention of the bridges, instead sporting something unrecognizable all over his newly-unmarred face, but goes on with defending his friend in front of someone who doesn’t even need this justification or anything of the sort.

“He did what now?” Bruce gets interrupted halfway through yet another sentence. Truth be told, he doesn’t even remotely understand what could possibly warrant such a reaction; Jerome looks completely thrown off balance and — does he really? — _hurt_. “You are saying my brother _apologized_ to you?”

Oh. Bruce supposes Jerome must really believe that Xander owes him some sort of apology. Delusional or not, he might even not be entirely wrong here, if Commissioner Gordon is to be believed. Besides, doesn’t Bruce himself have at least some first-hand experience with the engineer’s skills in concealing the truth?

No, scratch that! Has he really just taken psychopath’s words and expressions at face value, even more than that, actually _sympathized_ with him?

Jerome is laughing far more terrifyingly than ever, unable to properly articulate what’s plaguing his mind. And then in span of a moment his entire demeanor abruptly changes, giving way to something cruel and unforgiving.

“Is that it!?” He venomously exclaims, shoving Bruce away, as if disgusted. “Kid, you do realize that you’ve just empathized with homicidal maniac who attempted to kill you on more than one occasion, right? Is that’s what he found in you?”

Bruce tries to regain his footing as fast he can, but to no avail. No longer than a moment later Jerome punches him in the gut and pushes his body to the floor. He straddles his limp form, seemingly not caring that Bruce’s head is dizzy after the collision with hard concrete.

Jerome looks more enraged than ever before, leading Bruce to believe that all their previous encounters were, in fact, just a sick game for this bastard. Now, however, it has apparently become personal. Harsh blows come from every direction at once, and Bruce really starts to think that that’s it. He’s going to die now, beaten to death by a psycho in some bunker without anyone knowing, without anyone being there to help him.

And then Jerome stops, breathing unevenly, his face just an inch or two away from his own. Had he any strength left, Bruce would break Valeska’s nose with his forehead now, but as it is, he just tries to put enough oxygen in his lungs.

Some time later Jerome springs to life, as if spotting something — or _someone_ — in the dark. “Miah,” he reverently whispers.

“Let. Him. Go,” comes hissed reply, as if the speaker is barely able to hold himself. The voice seems so familiar and distant at once, the intonations completely foreign, but it’s still Xander. And Xander is safe. Hope starts to bubble up inside of Bruce.

Jerome is closed off once again, raw emotion no longer at disposal for everyone to see. “What, ya ain’t even gonna greet me now, brother dearest? It’s been a long time, after all. Not as long as _fifteen fucking years_, though.”

“A long time indeed. Now, if you please _don’t touch him_-“

“Possessive as always, aren’t you, ‘Miah?” Jerome chuckles. “I wonder what would mommy say if she saw you now, golden boy? All protective of your little plaything here.”

“Bruce is not-“

“Come now, brother,” Jerome growls, no longer playful. He jumps to his feet, completely disregarding Bruce, whose beaten form is still laying sprawled on the floor. The notion suits the Wayne heir just fine.

In few fast strides Jerome is all over his brother, delivering and receiving punch after punch. No words are exchanged between them, nevertheless both are positively reeking of tightly wound up emotions, visible even through Bruce’s current haze in poorly lit corridor.

By the time Bruce manages to rise to his feet, heavily bracing himself against the damp wall and desperately searching for a way out while twins are sufficiently distracted, the fight is evidently less intense, almost halfhearted. He begins to move, consciously measuring each step, when Jerome pins his brother to opposite wall, his body flush against Xander’s.

Bruce feels somewhat bad for leaving him to deal with it on his own, but he is in no condition to participate right now, and besides, he is fairly certain Jerome isn’t going to kill or otherwise permanently injure his twin. That much is a given.

At least he’ll be able to confirm Xander’s (relative) innocence once and for all, what with him literally saving Bruce’s life and all.

He turns his head one last time to glimpse the injuries on both Valeskas before fleeing to GCPD and filling Jim and Alfred in on what happened. Pauses. Gives a double once-over.

Twins are still shaking, either in rage or jealousy or both, but something seems not quite right. It haunts him, making leaving fucking bunker right now damn nigh impossible. It’s almost there, but he can’t put a finger on it, and his own stupidity irritates him to no end.

And then, as if sensing Bruce’s confusion (or more likely something else entirely), Xander tilts his head and _laughs_. The sound of it frankly chills Bruce to the bones, the sudden stop even more so.

“And here I thought he was _your_ little plaything, dear brother of mine,” Xander purrs with a cruel twist of lips that must have been intended as a smile, but failed.

Bruce stills, unable to process the implications of all of this, to accept his own willful ignorance towards someone so close to him. He abruptly feels his age, his inexperience, all leading to this moment where he is forced to face his empty confidence in himself and his _laughable_ observational skills, despite clearly being not ready to do so just yet.

Apparently, Jerome has no such qualms. Something in him shifts, dozens of facts simultaneously thought through, and then he lights up, evidently coming to most favorable conclusion. Bruce doesn’t have to wait at all to see the outcome. Without further ado the eldest twin pulls forward… and kisses his brother.

And Jeremiah is kissing back just as vigorously, moaning like a man who’s just found an oasis in desert on the verge of dying.

There’s nothing gentle in it; their movements are heated, passionate, all-consuming. Possessive far beyond the point of being normal (as if incest may be considered a norm to begin with). They kiss as if trying to devour each other, to finally become one. As if entire world exists in their shared breath and there’s nothing else that matters.

For them there probably isn’t, Bruce thinks. He stays frozen to the spot, escape plans forgotten, finding no strength to avert his gaze from the sight, repulsive and mesmerizing at once.

All hell breaks loose.


End file.
